


Burning With a Deadly Heat

by Fyre



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Death, Cold War, Complete, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Imprisonment, Mass Murder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:18:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 53
Words: 81,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard Stark never stopped looking for Captain America, but no one ever expected Stark to find him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Found

**Author's Note:**

> So I started with a vague idea, a 'what if' based around Steve not ending up on ice for 70 years. And then it just kept growing and growing, and now, I have this story, with Steve Rogers alive and well and during the Cold War. Let me tell you the research for this monster is epic.

They found him.

Howard Stark didn’t want to believe it. 

Over six years of searches, they’d hit too many dead ends and false trails, and people told him he was nuts to keep looking. The ocean, they said, wasn’t going to give up its secrets. Captain America was gone, and looking for him wouldn’t bring him back.

Howard never wanted to believe that.

Even if it was just to bring the Captain home and lay him to rest, knowing there was a grave he could visit was something. He needed every little bit of good he could find in the world, and right now, that centred on the Captain.

Without fail, every summer since the war ended, he would take his ship north and continue the grid search with every bit of new equipment he had thrown together since the end of the last search, hoping maybe this time, they’d get lucky.

This time, they did. 

The sonar had picked up on metal a couple of hundred k south of the tesseract, and for maybe a dozen kilometres, the ocean bed was littered. Then the ice was pinging, laced with metal. And then, there it was, sticking out of the ice fields like a flag.

The crew went quiet.

They were all thinking the same thing: they’d come to take the Cap home.

Once they knew the ice was thick enough to take their weight - of course it is, you idiot! Don’t you see the huge ship sitting on top of it! Proportional distribution of weight tells me the weight of a single man wouldn’t make a difference. Well, unless it’s Dum Dum - Stark insisted on striking out first.

It was like climbing the side of an icicle, and in the end, Dum Dum Duggan had to come down and kick his way through broken grates and gridding. 

Howard stood at the foot of one of the wings, clapping his gloved hands together, and stamping his feet. God, it was cold. It went without saying, of course. The ice caps had a tendency to chilliness. But still, it was a cold that went down to the bone.

“Stark! You better get up here!”

He looked up.

Duggan’s head was sticking out of an opening. Probably a loading hatch, Howard thought. Jones gave him a boost, and he climbed up as quickly as he could without falling and breaking his goddamned neck. Dum Dum caught him by the arm, helping him down. Every step rang back around them, like the echoes in a cathedral.

For a ship that looked like it had torn to pieces on landing, the main structure was surprisingly intact. Howard glanced around, taking in the shape and structure. Later, if they had time, he’d have to come back with a camera - or a ship - and record it.

“This way.”

For once, Dum Dum’s voice was lowered, cautious, almost respectful.

Stark followed him through the beat-up hallways. The ship was a work of art, all broad support struts, and even weight. Even if Schmidt was a crazy, his design teams had to be some of the most innovative in the world.

He almost walked into the man’s back, so caught up in staring around.

The big man nodded ahead.

The cockpit.

Howard could see a figure in the pilot’s seat.

The cold seemed to melt away around him, and he walked forward. He could barely even hear the clatter of his boots on the grid below them. The angle made him stumble, and he caught his hand on the back of the chair. His heart felt like it jumped to his mouth.

If there was any question that they were in the right place, it was answered.

“Damnit, Rogers,” he said hoarsely. “You should have let me teach you to fly.”

Steve Rogers - a better man than Captain America - was slumped forward, as far as the frozen straps on the seat would allow. His hands were still locked around the steering grid, the whole panel pushed up. He’d forced it into a dive, the stupid, self-sacrificing son of a bitch.

Every inch of him was covered in a fine layer of ice, snow drifting around him through the cracked windows. The blue of his uniform looked washed out, and his features were pale and still as marble. 

A sound behind him made him look back.

Dum Dum wasn’t alone.

Rogers’ men were helping in the search. Some of them came every year. Others came when they could, because the world could never stay at peace for long. They were meant to stay on the ship, but instead, they were all standing there. Duggan was staring at the floor, his hat off and clutched to his chest. 

“No tears.” It came out more abruptly than Stark intended. “They’ll freeze.”

Dum Dum swiped at his eyes with his thick leather gloves. Morita reached up and squeezed the other man’s shoulder, and Jones said reassuringly, “We know.”

Monty approached the pilot’s seat, treading lightly. Howard saw the way his breath caught as he saw Rogers’ last gesture. He looked like he was about to break, but there was something about the British and their stiff upper lip. He just straightened up and looked Howard dead in the eye. 

“We need to take him home, Mr Stark.”

It felt like some kind of sacrilege, to haul him out of the chair that was his resting place, but Monty was right. It was what they’d come all the way to do: find him, take him home, and give him the burial he deserved.

They brought in heating panels to melt the ice from Rogers’ body, keeping them close enough to thaw, but far enough so they wouldn’t burn him up. The techs were meticulous, but Howard didn’t give a damn. He didn’t trust them not to get sloppy. None of them really knew Rogers.

So he stood, for hours, watching, as ice slowly dripped away, and Rogers’ suit went from pale to deep blue. 

“Enough,” he finally said, motioning for the techs to move the panels back. 

Steve’s hands were still stiff around the controls, but opened as Howard pried the fingers loose. His limbs stayed rigid. Rigor mortis, probably. Or just a bone-deep freeze that the heaters couldn’t thaw out.

Without saying a word, he motioned the squad forward. They’d waited with him. They’d found the Captain. They weren’t going to leave again, not without him.

It took negotiation and care to get him out of the hatch, wrapped in blankets to keep his body from being knocked around by the rising winds. The brig was opened out, because they sure as hell didn’t want to leave him closed up in an icebox again.

New York wasn’t so far.

The ship turned south - but not before Howard left a beacon so they could find Schmidt’s vessel again - and they held an impromptu wake for Rogers. Or, as Monty more accurately called it, a jolly good piss-up. 

It wasn’t like any other wake Howard had ever seen.

For one thing, the departed didn’t usually spend the thing thawing out gently in tangle of blankets on the Captain’s dining table. 

They’d covered him in the blankets, then tucked water bottles around it. It felt like disrespect, but it wasn’t like they could show up in New York for a hero’s funeral with Steve Rogers sitting upright, body tensed for impact.

And so, a wake and every last drop of booze they had on the ship. 

Anything that made it easier than thinking about the fact they were defrosting the best man any of them had ever met like a slab of meat. 

Long after Duggan had subsided to sit on the floor, propped against the wall, and Jones had laid his head down to sleep on the table, Howard was still awake. He’d drunk, but nowhere near enough to lay him out. 

He got to his feet unsteadily, weaving his way over to the table. The hot water bottles were already cool. He pushed them onto the floor, and lifted the blanket away from Rogers’ face, to take a last look at the man, without a thousand eyes crowding in on him.

It was comforting to see Rogers didn’t look like he’d died in pain.

Howard frowned, looking a little closer.

Rogers didn’t look like he had, only six hours earlier.

Howard spun around, wishing to god that he hadn’t drunk quite so much. The dining tools were closed away in a cabinet and he tugged open a drawer, pulling out a knife, and staggered back to the table. He held the shining metal beneath Rogers’ nose, holding his breath.

The blade misted.

Howard fell back, knocking over a chair and landing on his ass on the floor. The crash roused Duggan and Jones. Morita looked over blearily from whatever deep and meaningful conversation he was having with the top of Monty’s head.

“Wha’ happened?” Duggan grumbled, knuckling at one eye.

Howard groped for the edge of the table, pulling himself back up to stare at the face of the man who had been closed up in ice since before the end of the war. 

“He’s alive,” he whispered. He reached out, gingerly touching Rogers’ cheek. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold as death either. Howard started laughing. He couldn’t help it. “The son of a bitch is alive.”


	2. Home

Phillips was on-hand to roll out the welcome wagon.

The Senators wanted to throw a parade in honour of the living dead, but Phillips knew better than that. Even if Rogers was alive, didn’t mean he was going to be the walking talking specimen of manhood that they all remembered. 

The man had spent years on ice, and that wasn’t going to leave him like he was before.

Instead of a parade and dancing girls and all the hoo-ha the big guns wanted to throw out, there was just an ambulance at the dock, and fences to keep nosey Manhattanites at bay. If Captain America was coming back as a war cripple, they sure as hell weren’t going to get a chance to plaster it all over the news sheets.

Phillips was waiting in a car near the ambulance when the ship came into dock.

Stark hadn’t given away many of the details.

It wasn’t a secure line, he said. All he said was that the Cap was coming home, and he wasn’t as dead as they all thought.

Scientists, Phillips thought, could learn a damn thing about not being all smug and cryptic. 

He watched as the lines were thrown down, and stepped out the car as the gangplank was lowered. It was raining, but hardly enough for an umbrella, so he strode forward, hands in the pockets of his trench coat to ward off the winter chill.

He stopped dead halfway there.

Stark was on-deck, and he wasn’t alone.

Rogers was there.

He wasn’t crippled.

He didn’t even look bent out of shape.

Yeah, he was in clothes that were too big for him, and two of his guys were helping him towards the gangplank, his arms over their shoulders, but the son of a gun was standing on his own two feet, and walking.

Phillips didn’t give a damn about what rank the man was. As Rogers was helped down the gangplank, Phillips pulled up to attention and saluted. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Captain.”

Rogers’ ashen lips turned up briefly, his fingers twitching against Jones’s shoulder. 

“Sir,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse, and no damned wonder, if he’d spent the whole time as a star-spangled ice-cube.

Phillips stepped forward, nudging Jones aside. He didn’t expect the man to move, but he did, nodding respectfully. There wasn’t a one of them, Phillips knew, who wouldn’t have carried the man down from the ship by themselves, and who wouldn’t understand why he wanted to help the Captain the last few steps of the way.

“You’re looking better than we expected,” he said, helping Rogers towards the waiting ambulance. Rogers was leaning on him, heavily, and every step was dragging. “Stark called in some favours. There’s a hospital suite with your name on it.”

“No need,” Rogers whispered.

“The hell there’s not,” Phillips snorted. “My sainted grandma could knock you on your ass right now, son. You’re going to go and you’re going to rest. That’s an order.”

Tired blue eyes looked up at him, and even before Rogers said anything, Phillips knew what was coming. “Agent Carter…?”

“Flying over on the next available flight from London,” Phillips said, “and you know she’d tell you the same damn thing, Captain.” He helped the man up into the ambulance, and pushed him to sit down on one of the gurneys. “Now, you gonna obey orders?”

Rogers pressed his hands to his knees. Both were shaking. “Not really a choice right now, sir,” he whispered.

Phillips picked up the blanket from the spare gurney and wrapped it around Rogers’s shivering shoulders. “You’re walking and talking, boy,” he said. “That’s more than can be said for a lot of people.” He patted Rogers’ shoulder through the blanket. “You did good.”

The blue eyes of that scrawny little brat from Brooklyn looked back up at him. “Did you keep the car?”

Phillips snorted, one side of his mouth turning up. “What kind of fool d’you take me for, Rogers?”

Rogers’ lips twitched again, a shadow of his usual smile. “One with a good car.”

Phillips just slapped him warmly on the shoulder. “To think I almost missed you,” he said. He stepped down from the back of the ambulance, letting the medics go to work on checking Rogers over. “We’ll follow in the car.”

“Time to debrief?” Rogers’ eyes were closed. He looked exhausted.

“Time to see if you’re gonna swoon like a girl at the next breath of wind,” Phillips countered. He nodded to the crew who slammed the doors, driving away with the mortal remains of Captain America in the back.

Stark and the rest of the men had descended from the ship by the time he turned around.

“So?” he demanded. “Want to tell me how the hell I just walked a dead man to an ambulance?”

Stark shook his head. “We have no idea,” he replied. “Best guess is the serum. Erskine always said it had potential for regenerative healing. My best guess is that his body went into hibernation when it got too cold, and as soon as it got warm enough, the healing kicked in.”

“Best guess, huh?” Phillips ran a hand over his face. He looked along the line of men. “You boys don’t look overjoyed.”

“He’s not in a good way, sir,” Morita said finally. “The Captain doesn’t make a big deal, but I think he’s in a lot of pain.”

“Yeah,” Jones agreed. “Maybe it was waking up the way he did. Maybe it’s the healing like Stark says, but you were right to send him to the hospital. He’s going to need people to take care of him. He can’t do it himself.”

The other men nodded.

Phillips nodded gravely, then drew to attention. Even though most of them had been demobbed, they did too. “You boys can count yourselves as dismissed for now,” he said. “We’ve got your rooms holed up in hotels, if you want to stick around in the city, but right now, the Captain needs time to rest.”

The men didn’t even exchange looks. 

“We’re staying,” Duggan said. “We want to know he’s okay before we go anywhere.”

“That go for the rest of you?”

“Give me money for a cab and tell me where my hotel is,” Monty said. “I’ve been sea-sick for weeks, and I’m dying for a bed that doesn’t tilt when I’m sleeping.”

“We have better than cabs,” Phillips said. “Cars are waiting.” He nodded down the dock. “We’ll keep you informed.”

He wasn’t surprised when they all saluted before striding in the direction of the cars.

Stark stayed.

“What are you thinking, Stark?”

Stark had his coat collar turned up against the wind. He looked thinner, gaunter, than he had when he left London. “He’s not going to be the same man,” he said. He shivered. “He’s gone through hell.”

“Welcome to living, Stark,” Phillips said with a sigh. He headed back towards his own car, getting in, then looked back out at Stark. “You need a ride to the hospital?”

Stark rocked on the balls of his feet. “I thought I might head to the labs. See what I can dig up in Erskine’s files about the regeneration.” He smiled, almost pulling off the convincing stole-from-the-devil grin. “The more we know the better, right?”

Phillips nodded. “Right,” he agreed.

Regeneration was one thing, but if Rogers’ brain and body weren’t going to patch themselves up, they had to know how bad it could get. Of course he’d have all the help he needed, but it would make a damn sight easier if they knew what to expect.


	3. Sleepless

The suite was top of the line: fine bed, all the best lighting, and even a bathroom with a private bath and toilet.

It didn’t stop it being a hospital.

Steve had always hated hospitals.

The first place he could remember that wasn’t his home was a hospital. 

His mom tried to look after him as much as she could, but sometimes, they just took him in, and put on the oxygen mask. And for weeks after that, there wasn’t even any fish in the house. Just vegetables boiled down to a soup, because the medical bills were so steep.

He could remember the smell so clearly, sharp and chemical. The quietness of the wards always scared him, lying in a room full of other kids, some of whom were wheeled away and never came back. 

For a kid, such a big, clean, sterile place was terrifying, and it wasn’t much better for an adult.

The suite was different, it was true, but it didn’t make it any less of a hospital.

Steve knew they were right to keep him in and monitor him. He was as weak as he had ever been before the experiment. Every part of him was aching, and sharp pains in his limbs made his whole body tighten in agony. 

What could he really expect, though? He’d been frozen for six whole years, if the guys were to be believed. He’d slept. No. Slept sounded too peaceful. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t been conscious, at least not that he knew, but he wasn’t sleeping.

He couldn’t sleep now either. It wasn’t just because of the pain. It was the feeling he got every time he closed his eyes: that closed-in, trapped feeling, as if he went to sleep, he would wake up unable to move or breathe.

He couldn’t remember freezing, just like he couldn’t remember thawing, but something in him could remember the binding cold. It had saved his life by closing him in the cocoon of ice, slowing his heart, stifling his breath. It had also held him there, his last gasp for air sealed in his lungs, somewhere beyond consciousness, but not quite completely unconscious. 

He definitely hadn’t spent the last few years sleeping.

It was only when he got too exhausted to stay awake that sleep would come, and then it was filled with nightmares. 

More than once, he woke up screaming. When the nurses asked if he needed anything, he waved them away. He’d had nightmares before. He’d have them again. They had people who needed real care, not some guy who had bad dreams.

At least he had a room with a view.

He sat by the window, watching as the sun came up over the city. He could see Brooklyn in the morning haze. Maybe he could just go home. His apartment was still there. Maybe it would be okay to just go back to it and be nobody for a while. It was home, after all. Home was where he belonged, with the pictures of his mom and dad, and Bucky just down…

No. No Bucky. Bucky had fallen. 

The memory came back sharp as a knife. It was one of the most common themes of his nightmares. It had been ever since the day Bucky’s fingertips slipped through his. 

His hands were shaking again and he covered his face. It helped to take deep breaths, count to ten, but it didn’t take the image away. 

How could he go back and see Bucky’s parents and tell them that Bucky died because he followed Steve into trouble? 

Bucky always got in trouble for fighting when they were kids, but always because he was defending Steve. Bucky’s mom had rolled her eyes more than once and said that Steve would be the end of them both, and she was right. 

He heard the door open and lowered his hands, blinking hard as he looked out over the east river. If he looked okay, then they might think he was okay, and if they thought he was okay, the sooner he could leave.

The nurse was silent.

Then heeled shoes tapped as she stepped into the room.

A hint of perfume, caught on the breeze through the open door, reached him. He didn’t know what the scent was, but he recognised it, and started to turn.

Peggy stopped mid-step. “Steve?” Her voice was a whisper, as if she hardly dared to believe it.

He must have stumbled to his feet. He was across the floor, and he was hugging her. She was there with him at the end, and god, what a selfish son of a bitch he had been, making her listen to that. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Her curls was soft and warm against his cheek, and her arms were around him too. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she whispered. He could feel her hand trembling as she ran it over his head, and god, he didn’t deserve her kindness, not at all. He sank, helplessly, to his knees, too tired to keep standing. The tears he’d been fighting for so long came.

“I should be,” he whispered, his voice breaking. He covered his face with his hands, ashamed. “Peggy, I made you listen. I made you _listen_.”

She was on her knees in front of him. She drew his hands from his face, replacing them with her own, making him lift his head, making him look up at her. “I made that choice, Steve,” she said, her voice as unsteady as his own. “You didn’t need to be alone. I didn’t want you to be alone.”

God, she was crying too. He’d made her cry. He lifted his shaking hand to brush the tears from her cheek. “I shouldn’t have.”

She laughed, tilting her cheek into his touch. “Well, no use crying over spilt milk,” she said, and she smiled as she had that last day. And like that last day, she leaned up and pulled him down and kissed him. Her lips tastes of salt and lipstick and he couldn’t help letting out a small sigh.

It was only one kiss, then she wrapped him up in her arms and just held him. She felt so small in the circle of his arms, but so strong, as she let him just rest his head on her shoulder.

“The nurses say you haven’t been sleeping,” she murmured, stroking the nape of his neck. He closed his eyes, the closeness and the warmth enough to keep the flashes of memory at bay. “You’re not invincible, Steve, despite all the evidence to the contrary.”

“I know.” He shivered. “I want to, but I can’t. Not here.”

“The hospital?”

He nodded mutely.

She of all people knew where he came from. She would know why hospitals bothered him.

“How many times were you in?”

He stared blindly at the tiles on the floor. There was a crack running right down the middle of one.

“Steve?” she prompted gently.

“I don’t know,” he replied in a whisper. “Too many. The smell. It’s the smell. I remember it.”

She rubbed his back and shoulders soothingly, her cheek resting against his hair. “I think I can fix that for you,” she murmured. “They need you to be somewhere they can send a doctor to see how you’re doing, but it doesn’t have to be a hospital.”

“Anywhere but a hospital.” He felt like a spoiled child, demanding what he wanted, but the nightmares and the smell of the place were making it impossible to rest. He needed to sleep, even if he didn’t want to. 

She drew back, just a little. “I know a place. A hotel. They owe Howard quite a collection of favours.”

Steve lifted a hand to rub at his cheeks. They were wet and still felt cold. Everything still felt cold. Everything except Peggy. “Can we go now?” he asked. “Please?”

She helped him up, her hands under his forearms. There was a time, he would have been lifting her to her feet, but he was too damn tired for playacting, even if he wanted to sweep her off her feet and be the hero she deserved. 

“Do you have a coat?” she said. “It was raining when I came in.”

Steve shook his head. “I left everything in London.”

She gently released his arms, then strode over to the bed, snatching up the blanket. “This will have to do,” she said, draping it around his shoulders. She looked up at him, drawing the blanket closed around him. “I’m going to take care of you, if I have to tie you down and knock you unconscious myself.”

For the first time in what felt like days, Steve managed to smile truly. “Who wouldn’t want a bedside manner like that?”

She smiled, and her eyes danced. “Come along, Captain,” she said. “We have a hospital to escape.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who are wondering, I'm going with Winter-soldier-verse, where Bucky's parents are still alive when Steve's mother passes away, and are still alive in this world today as well.


	4. Rest

Steve hardly said a word to her in the car, but he never once let go of her hand.

That concerned Peggy far more than anything else.

Steve Rogers was a man who tended not to draw attention to himself. If he was hurt, he would retreat to some quiet corner to patch his wounds. If he was grieving, he would walk out into an air raid to be alone in the ruins of a bomb-shattered bar.

For all that she was relieved and overjoyed to see him alive, she was worried.

Others were too. Stark had left her a briefing pack when she had checked in at the hotel the night before. It outlined Steve’s physical state, but not his mental one. There was a hand-scribbled note about that: we don’t know if he’ll be okay.

She covered their linked hands with her other hand, and felt him look down at them. She didn’t say anything, just stroked the back of his hand gently, reminding him that she was there with him. 

You won’t be alone. 

That was what she had told him, all those years ago, and she still meant it, no matter what happened.

Outside the window, the city was already waking up, but it was still quiet when they pulled up outside her hotel. She got out the car, hurrying around to the other side to help Steve out, even though he was stubbornly trying to hold himself up.

“Captain,” she said, part gentle concern, part stern warning. “You can’t push yourself.”

He looked up at her like a recalcitrant schoolboy. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, but there was a trace of a smile there.

She pressed her lips together, trying to suppress her own smile. He was still Steve, after all, even if he was emotionally exhausted. She offered him her arm. “Shall we?”

The hotel was far out of her own price range, but Stark insisted on only the best for his visitors. It wasn’t just a basic room either. One of the biggest suites had been booked in her name, and for as long as she wanted or needed it.

Steve was leaning on her more noticeably when they emerged from the elevator. His steps were slow, heavy, and she could tell that he was on the verge of collapse. The silly man always did push himself too far, with no thought for the consequences.

“Almost there,” she murmured, slipping her hand from his to put her arm around his waist. He didn’t even protest when she held his arm around her shoulders to prop him up. His hand was trembling when she wrapped her fingers around her wrist.

It was only blind stubborn luck that got them into the room, and across the floor of the suite to the bed.

It was unmade, but Peggy couldn’t care less as she helped Steve sit down. His hands fell limply into his lap, and he was looking at her as if he could hardly focus as she knelt down to remove his shoes.

“Whose room is this?” he asked vaguely.

“Mine,” she replied, getting up. She went to the dresser and filled a glass of water from the pitcher there. A movement in the mirror caught her eye and she spun around to see Steve struggling back to his feet, swaying. “Sit down at once!” she exclaimed, hurrying back to him and pressing him back down. “You need to rest!”

He looked up at her. “I’ll take the couch,” he whispered. “It’s your bed. It’s not polite.”

She sighed, setting the glass down on the bedside table. “Steve,” she said gently, “I don’t give a damn about propriety at the moment. I just want you to get some rest.”

He was so tired, so confused, that he barely seemed to understand a word she was saying. “It’s not proper,” he said. “Peggy, I don’t want people to think you’re that kind of woman.”

She cupped his face gently between his hands. “You’re very sweet,” she said, “but any hope of respectability I had is long gone. You don’t spend time in the military and come home to find your reputation gleaming.” She kissed him gently. “Let them think what they like. You need to rest.”

Reluctantly, he subsided, lying down. 

Out of kindness, she didn’t sit on the bed beside him. It would probably only have distressed him more, exhausted as he was. She did, however, make him take two aspirin and drink half the glass of water. She knelt down beside the bed, smoothing his hair back from his brow.

“Rest now,” she murmured. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

He was shivering and drew the thick warm blankets around him. His eyes were closed almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. 

Only when he was asleep did she allow herself the luxury of tears. She continued to stroke his hair gently. She had often wondered what his hair would feel like between her fingers, but she would rather have found out any other way but this. Still, it seemed to calm him, and the shivers gradually subsided.

Peggy got up, feeling weary.

She had hardly slept herself since the news had reached her in London. 

SHIELD were working on setting up a base of operations there, her home soil and a division that would be entirely her own. She was there to meet her counterparts at the British Security Services, but that duty had been transferred to her deputy, and she had flown back to America as soon as she could. 

Even though she had lain down in that very bed the night before, to try and get some semblance of rest, it eluded her. That was why she had arrived at Steve’s hospital room before seven o’clock in the morning, and he was so tired, he didn’t even question it.

She made her way through to the bathroom, and washed her face, patting it dry. Her eyes were redder than she would have liked, but some things were impossible to hide. 

The room was quiet. Steve barely made a sound.

Peggy considered calling down to room service for a cup of tea, but sitting just for a moment felt like a better idea. She slipped her feet out of her shoes, padding across the floor to the couch, and sank down on the plush faux velvet of the covers. It was as soft as the bed, and she told herself she would only close her eyes for a moment. Just a moment.

A cry of pain made her stumble upright, reaching for her small pistol at her thigh. 

It took her a moment to get her bearings and lower the weapon.

The hotel. The room.

 _Steve_.

She set the gun down and ran through to the bedroom.

Steve was sitting in the middle of the bed, ashen, gasping for breath. He was staring around as if he had no idea where he was.

Uncaring of decorum, she scrambled across the bed to his side, catching him in her arms. “I’m here, Steve,” she said softly, urgently, running her hand across his sweat-sodden hair. He was cold, shivering. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

He jerked back, startled, then stared at her. “P-Peggy?”

She had to smile, for his sake, smile as if she was happy and not at all worried. “Yes,” she said, stroking his cheek. “Yes, it’s me.”

Recognition flickered across his face, and he leaned closer, lifting his hand to touch her cheek, so gently, as if he was afraid she might just disappear. “I thought I dreamed you,” he breathed, “I thought it was my imagination.”

She pressed her brow to his. “You don’t get away quite that easily, Captain,” she whispered.

When he leaned up, when he kissed her, it was clumsy and nervous. His lips were dry and chapped, but there was an urgency and she knew that need, that want, that regret. All the time they’d had and wasted.

She sank down onto the tangle of blankets with him, kissing him back with equal fervour. His breath was coming quick against her lips, and he was making small, hungry noises, low in his throat, a parched man stumbling on an oasis. 

Perhaps it was regret that drove her. Or perhaps the desire to grasp their second chance.

She drew his hand down her side and to her thigh, guiding it beneath her skirt.

It was as if she had electrified him.

He sprang back, scrambling across the bed, swinging his legs down. He started to rise, then swayed and sat back down, hard.

“Steve?”

“You shouldn’t have let me,” he whispered, panting. “Peggy, I don’t want to take advantage of you! I don’t want to disgrace you.”

She knelt there, in the blankets, watching the way his shoulders were rising and falling with every breath. He wanted to. He wanted to as much as she did, and what was the damned point of denying themselves anything now? Had he come back from the dead to keep her at arm’s length? 

She crawled across the bed to kneel behind him, slipping her arms around his middle.

“I’m not asking you to take advantage,” she murmured, brushing her lips across his shoulder, bared by his vest. “I’m not asking you to disgrace me.” She pressed against his back and felt him tremble in her embrace. “I’m asking you to make love to me.”

She felt the way his heartbeat quickened. “Make love?” He sounded so uncertain. “I didn’t even learn to dance yet.”

Peggy couldn’t help laughing softly. “I think we can work out how it goes.”

He was so still, so silent, that she didn’t dare to speak. He was always so respectful around her, and that was the one thing holding him back.

He twisted in her embrace to look at her. “Really make love? Us? Love?”

She had a feeling her eyes were bright with tears again. “I think so.”

Then he was kissing her again and her blouse and skirt were left on the floor, and his vest was thrown aside. But he was tired, and he needed his rest, and she felt almost wicked when she pressed her hands to that familiar broad chest.

“On your back, Captain,” she whispered against his lips. “I can’t have you overexerting yourself.”

The way he looked at her, as he lay back against the pillows, made her heart race. His smile was soft, and as warm as the look in his eyes. “Yes, ma’am.”

When they were spent - which didn’t take long, but after the wait it was worth it - Steve curled around her, as if he could shield her from the world. She drew the blankets up over them both, then nestled against him, one hand spread on his chest. She could feel the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against her palm. 

If he whispered her name against her hair or said anything else, it was their secret. She closed her eyes, smiling.


	5. Interruption

Word came in from the hospital that some broad had walked in first thing in the morning, and stolen Captain America from his ward. And what a coincidence: Agent Carter had arrived in the city the night before.

Howard Stark didn’t need to be a genius to figure out where their illustrious Captain might be hiding out. 

He hung up on them, and let the lovebirds have some peace, but after the anxious doctors called for the third time, he knew he’d have to track them down. His driver dropped him off outside the hotel, and he put in an order for a decent meal to be sent up by room service, delivered as soon as possible, then headed up to Carter’s suite.

They’d had almost eight hours since the nurses found the Captain’s bed empty. That had to be enough for any man. Or woman, come to that, although Howard knew he’d underestimated Carter before. 

He didn’t even hesitate before knocking sharply on the door.

“Room service!”

He wasn’t surprised that it took almost a minute for Carter to open the door.

What did surprise him was that she was fully dressed, armed, and the only sign that anything had happened was her tangled hair. Her revolver was held at her side, but the gleam in her eyes was far more dangerous.

He smiled winningly at her. “I’m looking for a super-soldier. Tall. Blond. Muscular. You haven’t seen him, have you? I’ve had a worried doctor harassing me all day.”

She stepped back, inviting him in with a jerk of her head. “Captain Rogers was having trouble sleeping in the hospital,” she said, closing the door behind him. “Too many people looking in on him at all hours. I thought he might feel more comfortable somewhere without dozens of eyes on him.”

“That was the reason, I’m sure,” he said with a wry smile. “He was there so they could keep an eye on his vitals. They were concerned about his circulation.” He raised his eyebrows. “Have you noticed any problems there?”

Okay, yeah, he was asking for it, and wasn’t surprised at all when Carter pinned him back against the door, her arm across his throat. Her voice low and even more polite than usual when she said, “You’re a bright man, Mr Stark. Bright men know when to stop talking.”

He held up his hands in submission, and she stepped back, turning away from him.

“Steve will be through shortly,” she said, returning to the couch and sitting down. She crossed one leg over the other and arched an eyebrow at him. “You knew where we were. You could have had the concierge call.”

Howard considered lying. Something bordering on flirtation danced on the tip of his tongue, but the way Carter’s eyes narrowed warned him he was treading in dangerous waters. “I wanted to see for myself if he’s all right,” he finally said. “With proper health care and heating and not just a narrow bunk on a search boat.”

Her expression softened a little. “He’s rested,” she said. “And his circulation seems to be improving. He was complaining…” She hesitated, shaking her head. “No, not complaining. You know Steve.”

Howard did, too well.

The man could have been shot in the stomach and would have soldiered on without a word.

“What was the problem?” he said, approaching and sitting down on the chair by the couch. “He was constantly feeling cold?”

Her lips compressed into a thin line, and she nodded.

Howard rubbed his jaw. “He had the same problem on the ship,” he admitted. “We gave him as many layers as we could spare, hot water bottles, blankets. The doctors said he would need to stimulate his muscles and circulation to recover faster.”

“I read the report,” Carter said abruptly. Her cheeks had reddened. “It seems to have improved, if you feel the need to report back to your superiors.”

Well, well. The icy Agent Carter was thawing as much as the Captain.

He didn’t get a chance to say anything more, as the door to the bedroom opened.

Rogers braced a hand against the doorframe. He looked better than he had, with more colour in his cheeks, but he was still in a bad way. Carter was on her feet and across the floor in a moment, offering his arm. He glanced at Howard, as if daring him to judge, then let Carter support him as he made his way across to the couch.

“Stark,” he acknowledged, once he was sitting.

“Rogers.” Howard leaned forward, propping his arms on his knees. “Feeling any better?”

“Walking and talking,” Rogers murmured, leaning back against the back of the couch. He eyed Howard guardedly. “Did they send you to bring me back to the hospital?”

“Just to find you,” Howard replied with a crooked grin. “I don’t think I’d be enough to take you anywhere you didn’t want to go.”

“You might try to appeal to his common sense,” Agent Carter said, fetching a glass of water for Rogers. She glanced over at Stark. “He’ll be staying here for the time being. The room is secure and private enough.”

Rogers looked over at her. There was a strange expression on his face, as if he was trying to make a decision about something. He looked away as she came back, accepting the glass of water, and turning it between his hands.

“If you need anything,” Howard said, “you know you only have to ask. We’ll get some clothes in for you as well. If you need somewhere to live…”

“Time,” Carter said quietly. “What he needs is some time, Mr Stark.”

“She’s right,” Rogers murmured, raising his eyes to Howard. “I just need some time.” His smile flicked across his lips. “I’m feeling better already. I just need to rest. Catch up on things. I’ll be okay.”

Howard glanced at Carter, and could read the same thing in her expression that he had seen in all of the Captain’s men: worry. Yes, Rogers was back in the land of the living, but he’d come back quieter, sterner. It’d be a long while before he was okay.

A knock at the door made him start to rise, but Carter put her hand on his shoulder, her other hand automatically moving to her gun.

“Room service,” Howard said, getting up from his own chair and going to the door. He smiled at her, as he peeled a bill from his wallet, then opened the door. “I figured you wouldn’t have thought to get something to eat.”

Carter nodded gratefully. “Thank you, Stark.”

Trading a tip for the trolley, Howard shut the door on the busboy before the kid could notice who else was in the room. He brought it over, lifting the covers away with a flourish. “We’ve got all sorts, Cap. Hot, cold, heavy, light. What do you feel like?” 

“I don’t know.” Rogers rubbed his eyes. “I’m not really hungry.”

“Something light, then,” Carter murmured. “Warm too. It may help.”

Stark carried over the smaller plates of sandwiches and soup, scowling when some of the soup slopped over the edge of the bowl and spattered his sleeve. “You should count yourself lucky, Rogers,” he said. “Not many men can say they’ve had a genius serving them soup.”

Blue eyes flicked to his sleeve, then back to his face. “I think I can see why.”

Howard snorted, and he saw Carter hide a smile. “You want to pick something, Agent? I think the Captain wants me to clean myself up.”

Carter approached the trolley, then glanced at him. “Will you be staying, Stark?”

“Doctor’s orders,” he said apologetically. “He wants me to find and assess whether further treatment at the hospital is necessary.”

“I thought you were an engineer,” Rogers said, picking at the sandwich. 

“And I thought you were dead,” Howard replied frankly. “We’re walking blind here, Captain, but if you can just fill me in on how you’re feeling, after I get rid of these stains, I’ll be out of your hair.”

Rogers nodded.

Howard headed for the bathroom, closing the door over, but not completely.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting to hear. Rogers and Carter weren’t speaking much anyway, so he stripped off his coat and grimaced at the stains on his shirt. He soaked a towel and dabbed at them.

From the other room, he heard muffled voices, and inched a little closer to the door, curious.

“Did you sleep at all?”

“Yes.” Rogers was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t have any nightmares.”

“Well, that’s good, isn’t it?” Carter seldom sounded uncertain, but now, she did.

“Peggy, I…” Rogers sounded like he was having finding words. “I have to ask you something. I mean, after everything…” His plate clattered on the table. “Will you…”

“No, Captain.” Carter’s voice was as brittle and sharp as broken glass. “I would rather you didn’t ask that. If you feel the need to ask it again, I would prefer if it was asked in sincerity, rather than out of guilt or regret.”

“Okay.”

Carter’s heels clicked on the floor. “Very well.” 

Howard frowned, turning back to his sleeve, then set to work on his jacket. If he could feel the tension with a closed door between him and the other room, then spending a little longer in the bathroom felt like the smart plan.


	6. Atonement

Captain America was dead.

Colonel Chester Phillips’ name was on the forms signed to confirmed he had died in action.

Those forms were signed and stamped two days after Rogers disappeared.

Now, they were lying on Phillips’ desk again, making a liar out of him.

He flipped open the file. The photograph that once was attached to the front page of the file was gone, and he knew exactly whose sticky, red-nailed fingers had found it. Of all the people to take something from the Captain’s files, she was the only one he would approve.

He remembered the day of Rogers’ death far too well. 

It wasn’t an easy day for anyone, not by a long shot, but there was a compound to be subdued and soldiers to be dealt. He left Carter in the radio control room, giving her the privacy he knew she’d want, and did his damned job.

By the time he returned, she was out among the troops, overseeing the lockdown of the prisoners, and was crisper and sharper than he’d ever seen her. Rogers’ men knew something had happened, but Phillips never found out if she told them personally or left someone else to do the job.

Knowing Carter, she did it herself.

She was a soldier, through and through. 

If a hard job needed to be done, she would do it, just to prove a point.

The US would rejoice to know their patriot hero was back, especially with the conflicts spreading across Asia. There was already out and out war there, but with everything happening in Russia, there were senators who’d want to send the poor bastard into Moscow, all starred-up and spangled again.

Rogers wasn’t going anywhere, not until the doctors gave him a clean bill of health.

Only a handful of people knew he was back, but news like that wasn’t going to stay quiet for long. 

Stark had contacted him the day before to let him know that Rogers had moved to a hotel, which wasn’t exactly as secure or monitored as the hospital, but it sure as hell would stop some cleaner wandering in and running to the press with the biggest secret the US Government was currently doing its best to keep.

He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if the news hit the press.

The headlines would be a nightmare: Cap Hides From Commies, Commies Cow Cap, and any other dumbass things that reporters would piece together, trying their best to sound smart. All things that would force Rogers out of recovery and into war again, sick and exhausted and broken. 

He picked up his pen and struck through the Killed In Action stamp on the file. 

Maybe he wasn’t reinstating Captain America, but he was reinstating Steve Rogers. The little guy that Erskine liked so much wasn’t the same person as the Captain. Not many people remembered that anymore. 

People remembered the red, blue, and white. People remembered the helmet and shield. People remembered that smile that made them feel worthwhile for a second. People didn’t remember anyone but the Captain, and they could use that.

He closed the file up and locked it back in the cabinet by his desk. 

The less anyone knew about his return, the better.

He headed out into the offices, and down to the labs.

When Stark wasn’t out chasing down renegade patients, he was there, working flat-out to try and decipher more of Erskine’s cryptic scribblings. The doctor had been wary of his work being stolen, and in the end, his precautions meant he took the secret to his grave. Only his notebooks could provide any insight, should Stark be able to decode them. 

If Rogers was unstable, they needed to know if the serum was going to patch things or not.

Phillips typed in the passcode, and swiped his pass, then stepped into the room.

Stark was sitting at a workbench covered in paper and notes, the surface pages deep. He was chewing on the end of a pen, staring at the pages at random, then shuffling them and staring at them some more.

Phillips remained by the door, watching him.

He’d spent long enough watching scientists to know that you didn’t just walk up to them when they were in the middle of something. It wasn’t just a risk if they were working with explosive either. If they were chasing down a train of thought, it was better to let them finish than to derail them.

Finally, Stark slammed the pen down and buried his head in his hands.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess it’s not going so great?”

Stark didn’t even bother to turn. “Whatever the serum does, there’s nothing about what could happen if someone came back from the living dead,” he said. He rubbed at his eyes with both hands. “I don’t think there’s much more I can tell you.”

Phillips nodded slowly. It wasn’t unexpected. “So if Rogers came back wrong in the head, we just have to help where we can,” he said.

“Carter’s not about to let him fall apart,” Stark said.

“Carter knows how to speak to the man,” Phillips agreed. “Do what you can to make him more comfortable: apartment, people, whatever.”

Stark twisted on the stool to look at him. “Already in hand. He didn’t want an apartment. He wanted to go back to the place he lived before. I’ll get hold of the paperwork for the building, once the docs okay him.” He pressed his fingertips to his brow, rubbing at lines furrowed there. “I wanted to be able to help him.”

Phillips didn’t say anything. 

Stark’s obsession with trying to find the Captain had started not long after the war ended in the Pacific. Maybe he would have considered looking before, but everything changed after the clouds cleared, and thousands of people burned. 

When the war was over, when the idea of SHIELD was just taking shape, Howard was buzzing around like a fly with its ass on fire, doing a thousand things at once, getting by on black coffee and gin. He didn’t stop, not until the fall of that year, when he’d taken his ship and sailed north.

A couple of Rogers’ boys on the ships said Stark didn’t say much, just stood at the front of the ship, watching out, hipflask in his hand. Weeks would go by, and he’d come back to SHIELD, and the agency would work on.

Every damned summer after that, even after they found the tesseract and couldn’t find any wreckage, Stark took a month and went north. Every year, he came back, grim-faced, and would pour himself and Phillips a scotch - which Phillips never drank - and tell him next year would be different. 

This year was different.

Stark was different too.

He didn’t have a body to bury or a ghost to find.

He’d brought back man who needed his help, and he was going to give it to him.

Phillips knew where he was coming from. 

He could remember many of the condolence letters he had written over the years, but the ones he remembered most were the first ones he’d ever signed. He’d felt sick right down to his gut, but he’d had to face the fact that men died on his command: he told them where to go and they came back in pieces.

He had to write to the families of every damned one of them.

Stark didn’t have that luxury, a chance to beg for forgiveness that was hardly ever given, or to cover a coffin in a flag or even just say he never intended things to go as they had. 

He was left with the weight of what he’d been involved in, pressing down on him, and if helping Steve Rogers was a way to level the balance, Phillips could understand, probably more than anyone else within their agency.

“You do what you can for him,” he said abruptly. “Don’t know if we can get him back on full form, but we can help him get as close as possible.”

Stark nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is actually still reading this, if you have a moment, please lemme know what you think? It's kind of hard to tell if people are enjoying a thing when I don't what they're enjoying :) Ta much!


	7. Memories

The streets looked the same.

Not much had really changed in almost ten years.

Steve kept his head down as he walked up the staircase to the apartment that had been his. Or was his. Turned out that after his death, it was put up for auction with all the contents, relics of a man who left no will. He didn’t need to ask who’d bought it. Stark had placed the deeds into his hand the day before.

One day, he told Stark, he would repay him.

Stark just snorted and told him he was an ass.

It was still an effort to walk up the stairs, but he could breathe more easily now, and the pain in his long-frozen muscles that had plagued him for days had dulled to a steady ache. He could almost begin to believe he was getting back to normal.

Peggy was waiting down at the car. 

He’d asked her to give him a moment, and she obliged. 

She was obliging him a hell of a lot lately, and he was starting to feel guilty about the burden he was placing on her. He knew she was worried about him, and he appreciated it, but he hated being the source of her concern.

That was why he wanted to go into his own home alone, to face memories of people he had lost and left behind.

It all looked the same.

The paint was still peeling on the door, and the railing was more weatherworn, but it still all looked the same. He weighed the key in his hand, staring blankly at it. It felt like a lifetime ago since he had last closed that door, when he was another person. He was taller now than he had been, and that made it all feel smaller around him. His whole world had gotten so big.

The key was stiff in the lock, and the hinges groaned as he pushed the door open.

Nothing had been removed, Stark promised. A cleaner had been sent in once in a while to keep things clean, but other than that, everything was left exactly as it was when he had been shipped out to Lehigh.

He hesitated in the doorway, then stepped into the silent apartment.

The air was musty and stale, but there was no dust and the daylight was filtering through the lace curtains his mom had put up to make the place look more like a home. Steve remembered the day she hung them, like it was yesterday, smiling over her shoulder, and telling him this time, it would be a good home, and it would be better.

She always made sure he was comfortable and happy. Even when they curled together tight in the narrow bed they shared in the small bedroom, she would make sure he had more of the blankets. She always worried about bringing back some illness from the hospital, because he always caught everything, but in the end, it was one of those illnesses that killed her.

Her face, though, was hazy. Not gone, just a little faded at the edges. 

He moved forward slowly, forcing one foot in front of the other.

It was so much smaller than he remembered, hardly more than a kitchen and a bedroom.

There was a box on the kitchen table, exactly where he had left it, and his hands trembled as he opened it. He knew exactly what he was going to find, but it still felt like a physical blow when he removed the lid and Bucky’s face was in front of him.

It wasn’t a photograph. 

They hadn’t really used cameras all that much back then. Too expensive.

It was a drawing, a little faded, that he’d done of Bucky in uniform. 

Bucky insisted on getting him to draw it as a gift for his own mother, because she would be proud and it would be something she could frame, a way to remember her boy while he was off at war. 

Steve had started it long before Bucky was due to ship out, but had never got around to adding the colour. He’d ended up enlisted and swept away to Lehigh and Mrs Barnes never got the picture to remember her son by.

He sank down to sit on the old chair by the table, lifting the picture - and the ones beneath it - from the box, leafing through them. 

There were studies of places nearby buildings, people, even his own mother, drawn only hours after her funeral. Some he remembered sketching, some he didn’t, but the person who was in there the most, laughing, rolling his eyes, scowling, sleeping, was Bucky. 

Bucky, Bucky, Bucky, all over the pages. 

Some of them even had weird moustaches and jaunty hats drawn on them, because Bucky hated when Steve made him look serious or earnest. “You want people thinking I’m some kind of serious adult? Hell no!” Even if he tried to snatch the pencils back, Bucky would hold them above his head, and laugh himself sick as Steve tried to wrestle him down.

Each drawing was dated, because his art teacher always told him to do it. It would help him see how his art was developing with time, he always said, and see what weaknesses were there, and how to develop them into strengths.

The last drawing - the one from the top of the box - was from the week before Bucky shipped out. He drew it back to the top of the pile, staring at it. It was the best drawing Steve has ever done, and also the first time Bucky had willingly posed for any picture. 

He was sitting in the very room Steve was in now, upright in the other chair, looking out of the window, a lazy half-smile on his face. He was in his pristine uniform and looked calm, cheerful, not screaming and grasping at air, as he fell from Steve’s grasp.

Steve sat back sharply, his breath catching in his chest.

Everything had changed.

Coming back to the apartment was a mistake, a horrible mistake.

Maybe it had been his home, but now, it felt like a tomb. It felt like an abandoned shell without the people who made it safe and happy.

He rose, piling the papers back into the box and looked around. There wasn’t much there. He hadn’t needed much, only his basic necessities. There were a few clothes that belonged to another much smaller man, a man without ghosts at his shoulders. He left them where they lay, neatly folded in stacks.

In the end, he only took his box of drawings, and a small pendant that his mother had left him, in case he met a nice girl one day. It was a simple necklace: a little pearl on a golden chain. He looked at it for a long while before closing the box and slipping it in his pocket.

Peggy got out of the car as he came down the stairs. She didn’t say anything, just offering him her hand, and he took it at once, wondering if it was possible that he was borrowing a little of her strength.

“I think it’d be better to stay at the hotel for now,” he said quietly.

“Of course,” she said. “Do you want to go back right away?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “There’s someone I have to see,” he said. He looked down the street, then back at her. “I should probably go alone. I mean, it’s someone I knew from before, and it’d be better…”

“The Barnes family?” she guessed.

He nodded, looking down at the box in his hand. “I don’t think I’ll be there long. Would you wait?”

She squeezed his fingers. “Take as long as you need,” she murmured.

The walk between his old home and Bucky’s seemed a lot longer than he remembered. His palms were sweating, he noticed distantly. Heat of battle, and his palms were dry, but facing Bucky’s parents was a whole other thing.

He lifted the brass knocker - still gleaming. Bucky’s mom always was houseproud - and knocked once.

For a brief moment, he almost hoped they weren’t in, so he could walk away, leaving the drawing under the door, but he heard footfalls inside, and straightened up, taking a breath to keep himself steady.

The woman who opened the door was thinner than he remembered, drawn, aged by grief. Her tawny-blonde hair had faded to grey over her lined face. She looked up at him, frowning in confusion, and Steve swallowed hard.

“Mrs Barnes.”

She wiped her hands on her apron. “Can I help you?”

Of course. She hadn’t seen him since the serum.

“It’s me,” he said, and his voice betrayed him, cracking. “It’s Steven Rogers.”

Her eyes - Bucky’s eyes - widened in astonishment, and she reached out, touching his arm, as if she could hardly believe what she was seeing. Then she smiled, her eyes shining with tears, and said, “Bucky said in his letters that you’d finally grown up.”

He nodded, and couldn’t stop himself from dropping the box of drawings and leaning down to wrap her in his arms. She was always soft and warm, but now, there were edges and she was frailer, thinner, and god, Bucky would have hated seeing her like this. 

She invited him in, and he couldn’t say no, both of them speaking in broken, stuttering half-sentences, and he folded down to sit on the sofa, the same sofa he’d sat on with Bucky a thousand times.

She hurried around, getting a drink for both of them, then sat down on the couch, putting her hand on his arm again. She searched his face, and he knew what she wanted to ask.

“I was there when he fell,” he said, before she could say anything. He looked blankly down at her hand. “I tried to save him, Mrs Barnes, but I couldn’t.”

She pressed her other hand to her mouth, nodded. “I know, you silly boy,” she said. “You and he were like each other’s shadows. I just…” She shook her head. “I never thought I’d see one of you without the other.”

“Me either,” he confessed in a whisper. “A lot happened since… I couldn’t come back sooner to see you.” He took a breath, then straightened up, looking at her. “I want you to know he was a hero. He saved a lot of lives. You and Mr Barnes would have been proud of him.”

She smiled, and for a moment, the lines in her face softened. “We already were,” she said. “Thomas may not have liked everything our boy did, but he was so proud of him.” She looked at the fireplace, and the photograph there: a family portrait of Bucky and his sister with both their parents when Bucky was twelve. He was scowling at the camera. “He passed away. Thomas. Not three years after we heard about James.”

Mr Barnes and Steve had never seen eye-to-eye. The man thought anyone who wasted their time with drawing should be sent down the yards to learn what real work was, and Steve was too polite to point out that if people didn’t do drawings, there would be nothing for men like him to build.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “He was a good man.”

“He was a stubborn, pig-headed ass, just like his son,” she countered, smiling sadly at the photograph. “You know what they were like.”

Steve nodded. He lifted the box of drawings into his lap. “I have something for you. Bucky asked me to draw it for you, but I never got a chance to finish it before I enlisted.” He held out the drawing of Bucky, and tried not to notice how much it was shaking in his hand. “He wanted you to have something to remember him by.”

Mrs Barnes took it carefully, and her hands trembled too. She traced the outline of her son‘s face with a fingertip. “Was it quick?” she asked finally. “When he… did he suffer?”

Steve didn’t know what to say. “It was quick,” he lied. “He didn’t suffer.”

She looked up at him, tears on her cheeks. “You’re still a terrible liar, Steven.”


	8. Returning

It was raining when Peggy led Steve into the offices of SHIELD for the first time.

He’d asked, and she’d agreed at once to take him there.

He was better, physically at least, although his visit to his old apartment and the Barnes’ home had made him quieter and more withdrawn. 

She wasn’t surprised, and when his two visiting doctors commented on it, she gave them as brief and discreet an explanation as possible. No, he was not regressing. No, he’s state was not worsening. He was mourning for a life and a man lost.

It wasn’t her place to push him into action, so when he asked her to visit SHIELD, she was relieved that he wasn’t choosing to bury himself with the dead. 

He recognised the gates as they approached.

“Lehigh?”

She smiled slightly. “Well, with the disbandment of the SSR, there was a lot of space here that wasn’t needed,” she said. “Colonel Phillips pulled some strings, and we found ourselves with a new headquarters for the SHIELD project.”

She parked close to the parade ground, and watched him as he stepped out, the rain dancing on his fair hair. The last time he’d been standing there, he was half the weight and a head and a half shorter, but the expression was the same.

She got out of the car, putting up her umbrella, and waited as he looked around.

“That’s new,” he said, pointing to the building near the barracks.

“We had to expand a little,” she agreed, holding up the umbrella high enough to offer him shelter beneath it. He barely even seemed to notice as they walked towards the building. “We have laboratories below the ground level, and plenty of office and research space on the ground.”

“Like the SSR, then?”

“But with more far-reaching influence,” she agreed. “We hope to become one of the central figures in international security.”

“Isn’t that what we have a defence department for?”

She folded down her umbrella as they entered the building, shaking the water from it. “We always have to look to the future,” she said. “The scientific reserve was part of that, and we’re the legacy of that operation. After all, we don’t know when things might escalate even further in Russia.”

Steve stopped short. “Russia? What happened in Russia?”

She looked up at him. He had been so caught up in the traumas of his recent past that she hadn’t the heart to tell him about all that had happened since the end of the war. “I’ll give you a debrief this evening,” she said. “There’s an awful lot happening.”

“This evening. Right.” He followed her down the staircase into the main chamber of the SHIELD headquarters. 

It looked more like a bunker than anything, only there were rows of desks and agents. 

Peggy was pleased to notice that while a couple of staff members looked up, the rest kept their noses down, working hard. The last think she wanted was dozens of curious eyes staring at Steve. He didn’t need that.

Phillips was there, visible through the window into his office. He was on the telephone, and set it down when they entered.

“You’d think that once in a while, Senators would stop thinking they’re the ring master in this little circus,” he grumbled, motioning for them to come in. Peggy put her hand lightly at Steve’s back, and stepped into the room behind him, closing the door. “How’re things going for you, Rogers?”

“Alive and kicking, sir.”

Peggy didn’t need to look at him to know Steve was in military mode, looking at a point somewhere behind Phillips’ head. She glanced at Phillips, who raised his eyebrows, and shook her head. Pressing for honest answers wouldn’t help. If anything, it made Steve close up even more.

“So you’ve come to see our little operation, huh?”

“Agent Carter’s been telling me about it.”

Phillips leaned back in his seat. “Well, son, you are officially an honorary member for life anyhow,” he said. “Without everything you did, even with Stark’s funding, we never would have got off the ground. This is your baby as much as ours.”

Steve was rubbing his thumbs in circles on the side of his clenched forefingers. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “All I did was my job.”

“Same goes for every damn one of us, soldier,” Phillips said. He got up. “I’ll get one of our team to show you around. Carter, I need to fill you in on what happened with the meetings in London since you weren’t there.”

“Steve would be welcome to listen,” she said at once.

“It’s okay, Agent Carter,” Steve said. “I don’t mind getting the tour from someone else.” He gave her a brief, almost-smile. “You have work to do.”

She wished he hadn’t said that, that he would have stayed. It was if he didn’t feel he could be part of what they were doing, when all she wanted was to help him find his footing in the new and changed world they were in. If he was dismissed, then why would he feel he was involved at all?

She didn’t have any say in what he chose to do, though, and she could only nod in agreement as he headed out of the office and was taken in hand by one of Phillips’ secretaries.

“He could have stayed,” she said as Phillips re-entered and closed the door behind him. “What harm can it do, letting him know about the operational plans in England?”

Phillips looked at her. “You really think I wanted him out of here to talk about England?”

Peggy eyed him guardedly. “If this is about the fact he’s staying at the hotel…”

The Colonel sighed, gesturing impatiently for her to sit down. “This is about the fact that he’s not all present and correct, Carter,” he said. “I don’t give a damn where he’s staying, as long as he’s not wandering the streets.” He leaned forward on the desk. “The doctors have been sending me their reports, but I need to know what you know. How is he doing, really?”

She glanced over her shoulder, then looked back at Phillips. “Not wonderfully,” she said, “but I do believe he’s improving.”

Phillips raised his eyebrows, prompting for more.

Peggy hesitated, then explained all that she’d observed and the changes and improvements since her arrival. Of all the people to tell, she trusted Phillips to be the height of discretion, and she knew he wanted the best for Steve as much as she did.

When she was done, Phillips sat back with a sigh. “God damn it.”

“I don’t know what you had in mind for him, sir,” she said quietly, “but I can tell you, without question, he is not ready.”

“I didn’t have anything in mind for him, Carter,” he said finally. He rubbed at his brow. “I have to head to one of the bases up north. There’s been a call up for fresh troops in Korea, and they want input about what we plan to do.” He raised his hand to silence her before she could voice a protest. “They don’t know Golden Boy is back yet, and I’m planning on keeping it that way. Last thing he needs is another war zone.”

“Then why…”

“Why ask?” He smiled crookedly. “You think you’re the only one who’s still worrying about that son of a gun? I’m not gonna be around for a while, and I wanted to know I’m leaving him in good hands.”

Peggy could feel the blush rising up her cheeks. “I’ll take good care of him, I can promise you that, Colonel.”

He almost smiled at her, and she felt as if she were sitting in front of her father, after that awkward incident when she was caught stealing apples from Lord Hewitt’s orchard on a dare by Myrtle Collins. “I know you will, Carter.”


	9. Regret

Something had changed.

Howard Stark wasn’t sure what it was, but Rogers was being different around him.

Back in the war days, Rogers sometimes came to him for answers to questions: what exactly is fonduing, how many reloads can we expect before this weapon gets too hot to fire, how much faster can you make this motorcycle go, can we add flamethrowers. 

He’d missed those questions when Rogers came back to the land of the living.

Rogers didn’t ask so much, or even speak much at all. 

On the ship back from the north, he’d been so out of it that they didn’t press him, and now, he only really spoke if he was being asked questions. At first, he looked like he was lost in another world, a thousand miles away, but something had changed.

Now, if Howard asked him something, the response was curt.

More often than not, Rogers would just be leaving a room as Howard was entering, and sometimes, the Captain didn’t even seem to notice he was there. The few occasions that he did, he was formal, almost as rigid as Phillips on parade.

Howard figured he was being neurotic, but when it got to the point that Rogers actually stepped around him without so much as a greeting, his jaw clenched and his hands fists by his sides, Howard turned to Carter in confusion.

“I was going to ask him if he wanted to come down and see the new prototype motorcycle,” he said. 

“Probably best you don’t approach him for a little while,” Carter murmured. 

“He having that bad a time of it?”

Carter hesitated, then went to the door of the office and closed it over. The room was hers, a small, bright compartment, as neat and orderly as she was. She drew the blinds down, and Howard had a sudden recollection of being taken to a private room and told that his father had passed away.

The thought made him uneasy.

“What happened?” he demanded, before Carter even turned around. “Is he all right?”

Carter looked at him and there was something like pity in her eyes. “He’s doing well,” she said, going back to her desk and sitting down on the edge of it. “I’m afraid I had to tell Steve about what happened after he died.”

He stared at her, and knew she didn’t have to say another word.

“He knows?”

She nodded unhappily. “About everything. I promised him I would answer his questions, and I did.”

Howard felt like someone had punched him in the gut. He sank down to sit on one of the chairs in front of the desk. “God…” he whispered, burying his face in his hands. He was going to be sick. He felt like he was going to be sick.

“I’m sorry, Howard.”

He wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. “What do you have to be sorry for?” he asked, looking up at her. His hands were shaking. God damn it, he had tried so hard to hold it together. If he helped Rogers, it would make things better, but only as long as the man never knew what he’d been a part of. “You’re not the one who made the damned thing.”

“I know.” She looked down. Her right hand was clutching her left elbow tightly, and the fingers of her left hand were fiddling with a pearl pendant at her throat. “I had hoped he wouldn’t realise, but he knew about your expertise with experimental weapons.” Her dark eyes met his again. “If he hadn’t asked, I wouldn’t have said, but he asked, and I couldn’t lie to him.”

No. 

Of course she couldn’t. 

Not just because she was Rogers’ girl, but because she was Agent Carter, a honourable agent, and Steve Rogers was Captain damn America, purveyor of truth, justice, goodness, and not a goddamned A-Bomb.

Howard sagged back in the chair, dragging his hands down over his face.

“How badly did he take it?” he finally asked.

He didn’t need her to tell him. 

He’d seen it when Captain America turned away from him. 

“He was… upset,” Carter said quietly. “The idea was so similar in execution to Schmidt’s plan. I think it touched a nerve.”

Howard swore under his breath, his hand pressed over his eyes.

He hadn’t even thought of that.

“I think I should go,” he said, getting up unsteadily.

Carter straightened up too. “Do you want me to call you a driver?”

He looked at her blankly. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be good.”

In the end, she walked him out of the offices to the car, and for the first time he could remember, she touched him on the arm. 

“He understands why it was done,” she said, looking at her hand where it lay on his sleeve. He looked at it too. Once, he would have made a remark, smirked, flirted, but now, he felt like he was hollowed out. “But that doesn’t mean he can be happy about it.”

“If he was,” Howard replied, “he wouldn’t be him.”

He turned away and got in the car, pulling the door shut behind him with a little too much force. He sank back against the leather of the seat, and tried to hold on to the thought that Steve Rogers was back. 

It was the thing that had kept him going: that some good was back in the world, after all the bad that had happened. 

Steve Rogers was back, and it did make the world a little better and brighter. 

Even if he hated Howard for what he had done, the fact he was alive to hate him was better than him being gone. 

Howard didn’t say anything to his driver, and when he got back to his home, he dismissed all the staff. The last thing he wanted around him was people, even people who worked for him and wouldn’t give a damn if he did something stupid.

It was quiet and evening was falling as he walked through to the bar.

It was always well-stocked, even if he didn’t entertain as much as someone of his station should.

He poured a measure of whisky from one of the decanters and stared at it for a good long while. 

Back after the war, he’d started with gin, but after a while, anything was good enough, and because he was rich, he could make sure it was always good quality anything. 

He knocked the glass back, then filled another.

It burned down his throat and he shuddered.

He remembered when he signed on with the Manhattan Project.

At the time, it had all been purely theoretical, because what kind of man would be willing to hold that kind of power in his hand? They knew the answer to that. They’d seen it before. And yet, when it came down to it, when it came to their own people over the people of a country they were at war with…

He stared at the glass in his hand, then hurled it at the wall. It splintered into a thousand shards and they fell, tinkling, onto the floor.

Howard braced both hands against the edge of the bar, taking gulping breaths.

People died. Hundreds of thousands of them.

Rogers was right to turn away from him.

After all, Rogers wasn’t friends with men who did things like that. 

He destroyed them.


	10. Plans

The Howling Commandoes were holding a party in all but name.

Rogers wasn’t exactly up for a big celebration, not even after rising from the dead, but he looked at ease surrounded by his men. He always looked that way in company. Phillips chewed on the end of his cigar, watching him.

According to all the docs and brains, Rogers was almost back to the picture of health he had been before the ice-cube incident. It had taken weeks, but he was just about as strong and healthy as he had ever been when he was running around in Europe, all Spangly and Heroic.

Phillips had only seen him a handful of times since his return: once at the gym, beating the hell out of a punch bag, and every other time, they were both at the new SHIELD offices. There were tests and god knows what else going on, and he had his own problems with the Army calling on all reserves for the war out east. He let Rogers get on with recovering, knowing that any problems would be reported.

They were. Regularly.

Maybe the man was back on his feet, but that was all, even at the gathering for him to say goodbye to his men. Rogers was smiling quietly at someone’s joke, but it never quite reached his eyes.

He was an honest man. He could try his damnedest to look like all was fine and dandy, but anyone who knew him as Rogers and not Captain America could see when he wasn’t showing everything. He smiled when he was happy, but when he was down or mad or hell, even just dealing with a headache, he showed nothing.

Phillips could remember the day the runt got pumped up to full size.

He could remember the power surging and he could remember that tiny fragile little guy screaming in agony. That was the only time anyone heard him scream, and the first sign that they were going to stop the procedure, he’d shut right up. He hadn’t made a sound since. He always shut up when things weren’t great.

Carter was on edge too.

He didn’t need to ask why.

When things got personal, and one of the two halves of the personal arrangement wasn’t doing so well, the other would show the signs too. 

He wasn’t surprised that Rogers was staying in Carter’s suite at the hotel. He’d see the way they looked at each other for years. Not many people were lucky enough to get that kind of second chance, and he wasn’t about to judge her for grabbing it with both hands. She’d worked her ass off, and hew knew the kind of merry hell that played with a social life or lack of one.

The fact that Rogers hadn’t put a ring on her finger yet was the big shock.

Then again, Carter was a modern woman. Maybe she didn’t want the marriage and kids.

He wasn’t about to ask. It was none of his damned business anyway, and if he did, Carter wasn’t under his command anymore. Couldn’t exactly stop her from giving him a sock in the jaw, if him said too much.

The party - if a private dinner in a private room with only a dozen people could be called a party - was relaxed. The soldiers just wanted the chance to see the Captain once more before they headed back to homes and wives with the news that their annual search was cancelled in future. He looked better, and was walking and talking, and for them, that was a start.

Every one of them had put in a request for any changes to be sent to them, to let them know the Cap was okay. Phillips didn’t even bother trying to tell them to ask Rogers to let them know himself. He might not be able to lie to a man’s face, but he could put pen to paper easily enough.

When they finally left for the night, only Carter, Rogers and Stark left behind, Phillips had a feeling that he should have left before the others while he still had the chance. Stark was pouring a cognac by the drinks cabinet, and Carter was securing the doors. 

Rogers seemed to be a million miles away.

“Colonel,” he finally said. “I’m not sure what my current role is in the army.”

Philips took out a fresh cigar, lighting it. He puffed on it, and blew a curl of smoke into the air. “Son, as far as the army knows, Steve Rogers died in action in 1945,” he said. “The world doesn’t know, and I’ve made damned sure that no one else’ll find out without your say so.”

Rogers had laced his hands together in front of him on the table and was frowning at them. “I heard about everything that’s been happening since the war ended.” Beyond him, Phillips could see Stark refilling his cognac and knocking back a glass. “Sir, if the army is in Korea, to fight against the north…”

“There’s no way in hell you’re going in there, Rogers,” Phillips snapped. “So you’re walking and talking? It took you three goddamned weeks to stop dropping every time you walked across a room.”

Rogers uncurled his hands, running one of them over his face. “I was made for this, sir.”

“This isn’t the Nazis or Hydra again, no matter what Truman seems to think.” Phillips ground out the cigar with an impatient sigh. “You gave your life, Rogers. You got a second one. You should take advantage of the fact. Take a year. If you’re back to full strength, and the war is still on, maybe we can bring you out of retirement.”

“People will die,” Rogers said quietly. “In that year, a lot of people will die.”

“It’s a war, son,” Phillips said, not without pity. “People are always going to die. People are dying in Russia right now. You gonna go in and help them? Get rid of Stalin all by yourself?” He shook his head. “You don’t need to fight every war, especially not when you’re barely holding it together.”

Rogers looked at Carter accusingly.

“He’s your commanding officer,” Carter replied without meeting his eyes. “He had the right to know.”

“How much does he know?”

“Only that you’re not sleeping, Captain,” Phillips said. “Nothing more than that.”

Rogers shoved the chair back from the table, rising. He paced the length of the room, then back. “So what am I meant to do?” he demanded, bracing both fists on the table. “I’m a soldier, Colonel, but you won’t let me go to war?”

Phillips looked up at him. “I told you, Rogers,” he said quietly. “Take a year. Get your health back. Hell, if it’s your sanity, get that too. You’re no use to me now.”

Carter approached Rogers, slowly as if he might lash out, and that wasn’t like him at all. She touched his arm, and he jerked away, straightening up. “Steve,” she said, her voice calm, even though she didn’t look happy at all. “You said you wanted to find out what happened to your friend. Maybe… maybe take this time to do that?”

He looked at her, then nodded, folding his arms tightly over his chest. When she laid her hand on his arm this time, he didn’t pull away. 

“I’ll help you every step of the way,” she said, “if you want me to be there.”

“I’ll help too,” Stark said.

A muscle twitched in the Captain’s cheek. “I thought you’d be needed here,” he said. “Don’t you have another project to work on? Don’t forget to give it a catchy name. The Commie Bombie or something.”

“Steve.” Carter squeezed his arm.

“I _died_ to stop something like that from happening.” Rogers’ voice was unsteady. “I thought we were the good guys.” He was looking at her hand. “I stopped Schmidt to stop him hurting innocent people, and not six months later…” He shook his head tightly. “No, thanks, Stark. I don’t want your help.”

Stark’s face tensed up and he turned back to the drinks cabinet, pouring himself another. 

Phillips ran his hand over his eyes. Of course the patriotic son of a bitch would want to know how they won the war. Of course he’d read up on it. He’d probably even go looking for the details of the survivors.

“We’re not here to argue about that,” Carter murmured. “Whether or not we agree with it, it was done. Stark could be useful.”

“Not to me. Not now.”

Carter seemed to know she was fighting a losing battle, and looked over at Phillips. “Is there anything you can suggest, Colonel?”

“We still have all the maps from the mission in records,” he replied. “And I’m pretty sure Rogers’ll remember where you need to go.”

“I do.” Rogers’ voice was flat.

Phillips leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers on the table. “You’ll have to go in as civilians,” he said. “Things are all kinds of tense over there just now, and we don’t want them getting any ideas that good old Captain America is coming to take the war to the Ruskies.”

“Fine.” Rogers nodded. “We’re going for a vacation. Nothing suspicious.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to find a suitable cover,” Carter murmured.

Phillips pinched the bridge of his nose. “Officially, I can’t know anything about it. As far a SHIELD goes, we’ll say you have a family emergency to deal with.” He lowered his hand and looked at Rogers. “You want any of your commandoes?”

Rogers shook his head curtly. “The less people there the better, sir. We don’t need to draw attention.” He unfolded his arms. “Agent Carter and I will be enough.”

Phillips glanced at her. After years of working alongside the woman, he’d gotten pretty good at reading her varying degrees of nonchalance. Currently, she was somewhere between frustrated and worried. “That good for you, Carter?”

She straightened up, Agent Carter in deed as well as word. “Yes, sir.”


	11. Ties

They started the journey in London a week later. 

It was strange, seeing the difference that six years could make.

So much of the city had been damaged in the Blitz, places he’d been to with the Commandoes. With Bucky. He didn’t know if it was a futile mission, but it felt better to be doing something, instead of sitting, useless, and watching the news come in from the war.

Part of him wanted to go.

People were dying, and it wasn’t right.

But the bigger part of him knew that Peggy and the Colonel were right. He forgot to eat all the time. Sometimes, he would still get the chills down to his bones. And worst of all, he was still sleeping badly. The only times he got any decent rest was when he let Peggy hold him. 

It felt like they were treading too close to a fine line.

They hadn’t made love, not since the first night.

He didn’t know if it was all down to his reaction the next day. Trying to propose was a stupid thing to do, and Peggy had looked so cut up. He’d imagined asking her, once in a while, back in the day, and it had always felt corny, but it had always been sincere. It wasn’t in a fit of alarm about her reputation.

He already had a ring, a little plain thing with a chip of a diamond, but he could never find the words to say to her. It never felt right, not when she held him while he fought back from the hold of the nightmares, not when she saw him break with every night, not when it would come across as if he owed her the engagement.

So he kept the ring in his pocket, and tried to find a time, but the time never came, day after day, week after week.

She still insisted on sharing the bed with him, and he was grateful for that. 

He would never have asked, but she seemed to know. She let him wrap himself around her, the fabric of her underthings cool against his skin. She always ran her fingers through his hair and across the back of his neck, and it helped.

When they reached London, for the first time since his return, he was given a room adjoining hers in the hotel.

He barely slept a wink.

She found him in the chair by the window a little after six o’clock, shadows under his eyes.

“That bad?” she asked quietly, sitting down on the end of the bed. The covers were a tangled pile where he’d left them.

He turned over his hands silently. His nails had left bloody crescents in his palms. He almost didn’t notice the pain over the aches in his bones. He’d woken up rigid, and it took him a good few seconds to remember he wasn’t trapped anymore. “The ice again,” he said. He closed his fingers back over scratches. “I couldn’t move. Which is ridiculous, because I can. I know I can.” He shook his head, closing his eyes. “I just forget.”

The bed creaked and Peggy’s dressing gown rustled as she approached. She laid her hands on his shoulders. Steve let his head fall forward to rest against her chest.

“I’m tired,” he confessed.

“I know,” she murmured, rubbing her fingers along the back of his neck. “Tonight, you’ll be moving into my room.”

He drew back, looking up at her. “Peggy, people will think…”

She brushed her thumb along his cheek. “Then perhaps we should make it official.” A small dimple appeared in her cheek, and she lowered her eyes, gazing at him through her lashes. “Would you, Captain?”

Steve stared at her. “What?”

“Marry me?”

He blinked at her. “Huh?”

She laughed, and he hadn’t realised how much he had wanted to hear that sound. “Well, we have hardly been conventional in our courtship, have we?” she said. “And the more time I spend with you, the more I’m aware I never want to leave you again.”

Steve felt like the rug he was standing on had been pulled out from under his feet. “Wait, I thought you said…” He shook his head. “Wasn’t I meant to ask?”

She leaned down and kissed him gently. “Sometimes, a girl gets impatient,” she said.

He couldn’t help wrapping his arms around her, pulling her down into his lap, and kissing her properly. And if his hand slipped under her dressing gown and stroked along her side through her nightgown, so what?

She leaned back a little way. “Is that a yes, Captain?” she said, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining, and god, she looked beautiful. 

He just had to look at her to know the answer.

They didn’t make a big deal: two witnesses who had no idea who they were, a registry office, a pair of plain gold bands to join his modest engagement ring. Peggy wore a rose at her lapel, Steve managed to find a smart jacket and tie, and they stood arm in arm and said their vows.

It felt right. 

There were always so many people around them before. They’d hardly ever had a chance to be alone, between the wars and the missions. It was kind of fitting that their marriage was just between them and no one else.

They took a few days longer than were necessary in London, before moving on to France, under the pseudonyms Mr and Mrs Carter. 

“Maybe we should keep it that way,” Peggy murmured mischievously as he signed the registry in their hotel in Paris. “Mr Carter. It’s quite a respectable name.”

For the first time in weeks, Steve felt like he could smile. “We could take it turn about,” he said, catching her by the hand to pull her closer and kiss her. 

She still blushed, and so did he, but they were married and they were on their honeymoon, and he didn’t give a damn who saw them. He knew the concierge and bellboy were watching. When she pressed her hands to his chest and pushed him back, her eyes dancing, he grinned at her.

“Was that absolutely necessary, Captain?” she murmured, as they made their way up to their room, her arm through his.

“Since we’re undercover as a honeymooning couple, I figured we should make it look convincing,” he said, as solemnly as he could.

He heard the muffled laugh. “I don’t think this is quite what Phillips had in mind.”

“I bet.”

All the same, as unexpectedly happy as Peggy made him, the arrival in Paris reminded him why they were really there. He’d come back to Europe for one reason, and it wasn’t to play at being a regular Joe. They had a lot of work to do.

They were scheduled to be in Paris for a week at most.

Peggy insisted on it to give them time to adjust to the time zone. Steve knew it was really to give him time to breathe. Seeing old haunts had brought back memories, and while Peggy’s presence helped, he was waking every night.

More often than not, she would help him calm down enough to get back to sleep, but it wasn’t exactly restful for either of them.

The extended stay also gave her time to get in touch with contacts.

She had files on the missions with her, and when the bed was not being used for its intended purpose, the files and maps were spread out across the covers. Steve spent hours poring over the routes that they could take, people they could contact to make their passage go more smoothly.

The train line and the canyon were in Swiss territory, which was a good thing. While Hydra had infiltrated the country and used several of their scientists, it was a neutral party in the war, and wasn’t likely to be hostile or suspicious of an American tourist and his English wife.

He had sketches - dozens of them - of the area where Bucky fell. It wasn’t something he was going to forget, not when it played out in his nightmares with painful frequency, and every sketch was precise in the details. 

He didn’t enjoy drawing landscapes all that much, but getting it out of his head and down on paper was better than thinking about it.

Peggy found increasingly detailed maps of the area. He didn’t ask how, and she didn’t say, but he had no doubt she still had friends among her old acquaintances in the resistance. 

Based on his memories, and her map-reading, they marked out the area where he and his men had boarded the train. From there, it was simple to work along the route, until the curve of the river and the shape of the gorge matched the drawings. 

His mouth went dry, and he sat back on his heels beside the bed, putting his shaking hands on his thighs to steady them. He wasn’t surprised when Peggy knelt down beside him, and covered his hand with hers. 

“We don’t need to go right away,” she said. “You can take some time.”

He shook his head. “We don’t want to go there in the winter,” he said. “Trust me.” He tried to smile. “It can get a little cold.”

“So we take thermals,” she murmured. “Not very alluring, I’ll admit, but needs must.”

He shook his head. “If I try and put it off, it’ll only make things worse.”

She didn’t need any more of an explanation.

The whole expedition wasn’t just to get closure for Bucky’s family. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was being selfish. He’d never had a chance to say goodbye, and maybe if they could at least stand where Bucky fell, honour him that way, it would be something. 

Anything but an empty grave and a folded flag.


	12. Haunted

Switzerland was a pleasant place to visit in the last days of summer.

The mountaintops were still capped with snow, but in the valleys and gorges, the trees were on the verge of turning shades of red and gold, and the sun was still warm. It was all far too beautiful and idyllic for the mission they were on.

The journey was hard for Steve, and that was no surprise.

They had to take the train to reach the region they were going to, along the very same track.

She knew the moment they reached the right area, because Steve - sitting beside the window - made a small, choked sound and covered his eyes with one hand, pressing his fingertips against his eyelids. He would never cry out, but that small sound was enough to make her lean over and draw down the curtain over the window.

“It looks the same,” he breathed.

“I know.”

What else could she really say?

They disembarked at the next station, and took the small cable car down to the valley. There were a handful of small towns and villages running the length of the gorge, and they paid a local gentleman a small fortune to borrow his car. 

Peggy took the wheel.

It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Steve to drive, but knowing him, he would not stop or rest until they reached the pass. He wanted closure, something she understood very well, but there were many miles of winding roads, and he was emotionally compromised and exhausted.

That night, they found lodgings in a small inn, halfway up to the gorge.

Steve ate and drank what was put in front of him, but his motions were automatic. She had no doubt he couldn’t tell her what he had just eaten. He was miles away, in another time, and that was something she could understand. He forgot, she thought, that she had seen a loved one fall as well. He tried to hide his pain from her, forgetting that she had experienced it herself.

When they retreated to bed, she left the bedside lamp on as she studied the small book of local maps. Steve returned from the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to her. His shoulders were taut as wires.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. 

She closed the maps up. “For what?”

“For coming with me. For being here.” He sounded so tired and sad. “I know it’s probably a wild goose chase, but I have to know.”

Peggy put the map down on the bedside cabinet. “Two years ago,” she murmured, “I took a leave of absence from Shield to join Howard on his ship to the north.” Steve turned to look at her, surprised. “Believe me, you aren’t the only one who likes a wild goose chase.” She offered him a small smile. “Especially because sometimes, your silly goose is there.”

He gazed at her, then got up and lifted the covers to climb into the bed beside her. It felt so natural, her husband, being there with her. He lay down on his side, propping his head on his hand, and looked up at her.

“What did I do to deserve you?”

She ran the back of her finger down his cheek. “You saw me.” She patted her blanket-covered lap with her hand. “Rest your head, Steve. You need it more than I do.”

He didn’t protest, curling closer to her, and resting his head on her lap. She combed her fingers gently through his hair, gazing down at him as he closed his eyes. He was asleep in moments, and a little of the tension left him. 

For such a big man, he made himself so small when he slept, curling up tight, as if he was still confined by a much smaller body. No matter how much time went by, she knew he would always be that slight, fragile man she met so many years before.

If anyone had dared to tell her that one day, she would marry the man, she might well have laughed at them. She never really had any intention of settling down, not while there was a war on. Then Steve came along, kind, good, brave, honest Steve, unlike every other soldier in every other regiment. Had he asked, then, she might have said yes in a fit of passion.

Now, it was different.

He had a more personal war to fight. As much as he had friends and allies, only she and Phillips remained of the people who knew him before. It was the difference, she supposed, of people knowing Captain America rather than Steve Rogers.

The gold of her wedding band gleamed against his hair.

It wasn’t out of necessity or out of propriety.

She had been completely honest when she told Steve she could not imagine a life without him in it. She had tried for over five years, and the world had seemed diminished. No one could ever compare to him. 

For someone who had started life as such a small man, he cast a long shadow.

She loved him. 

It was as simple as that. 

She loved him, and she wanted to be by his side, for better, for worse. And he loved her too, for all the same reasons that she loved him: they both had seen one another for what they were worth, long ago. 

Steve shivered as if cold. Peggy knew the signs well enough. His body was still recovering, and sometimes, the ice nightmares were brought on when he felt even a little chilly. She leaned over and switched off the light, then wriggled down the bed, and drew him into her arms. 

He gathered her to him, even when half-asleep, and she wrapped the blankets and her arms around him to keep him warm.

“I’m here,” she whispered, as his head came to rest on her breast. She stroked his hair over and over until the shivers subsided. “You’re safe, Steve. You’re safe.”

The nightmares were bad that night, but she expected it.

She wasn’t surprised to wake up to an empty bed.

Steve was sitting in the small dining area in the lower floor, staring blindly into a cup of coffee long gone cold. She joined him at the table, sitting down opposite him, but said nothing. There was nothing that really could be said. 

Instead, she opened the map of the area, and slipped it across the table. Although there were roads marked on the map, a fine line had been sketched in a different place in black ink.

“You found a route?”

Peggy nodded. “I asked some of the locals,” she said. “The maps were a little outdated. We can be there by this afternoon.”

Steve ran his fingertips along the route, staring at it. “Good,” he said. “Good.”

It was a beautiful day. The sun was cutting through white clouds that curled across the sky, casting dancing shadows on the roads and through the trees. They turned off the one main road that ran through the valley, into the forest roads that the local guides recommended.

The sunlight was dappled there, soft and green and peaceful. 

Steve sat silently in the passenger seat, staring out of the window.

It was pointless to try and make conversation, so Peggy kept her eyes on the road. It was very beautiful, but she had driven through enough forests before to keep both eyes open. Living through a war, and experiencing more than one battlefield left some instincts that would never die.

They passed a modest town, and then - about twenty miles on - a village that clung to the banks of the river where it emerged from the gorge. It was only when the road petered out to nothing but dirt trails that they had to abandon the car and don their hiking boots.

Steve marched like a man possessed.

He was a soldier back on that day, and she followed in silence, catching her breath when she could. The gap between them widened, but she still followed, and she only caught up with him when they reached the point where the railway hugged the cliffs far above. 

She sat down on a boulder, winded, as Steve paced the edges of the riverbank. He looked up at the cliff, staring at the point where the train must have been, just before the tunnel. Then he was pacing again, looking at the cliff-face, at the rocks, even into the river, as if it could answer any of his questions.

She joined him when she could breathe easily again.

Neither of them knew what they were looking for. Perhaps a sign or a trace of man who had died there. Perhaps it was just the need to have tried. She wasn’t sure, and Steve didn’t say, but she could see he was growing more and more distressed with each moment.

Finally, he grabbed up a rock and hurled it into the river, then another, and another, as if it could change things, avenge his friend, do something.

Peggy approached him and slipped behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He never liked to let her see him cry, and she could always tell when he was. His arms fell limp by his sides, and his chest rose and fell heavily.

“I should have climbed down then,” he whispered. “I should have come back. I should never have left him behind. He would never have left me behind.”

“You know there wasn’t time,” she said softly. “You know that.”

He nodded, lifting one hand to rub his face. He stepped out of her embrace, looking around. “I want to leave a marker. Something so people know he was here. That he died here. That he was a hero.” He took a shaking breath. “It’s not fair for him to be forgotten.”

There wasn’t much to use in the way of markers.

In the end, Steve used a pocketknife to carve into the trunk of one of the trees closest to the waterline. Barnes’ name, his regiment, the date he fell, and a crude rendering of his features, sliced into the bark with the knife. Steve stared at it once he was done, brushing his fingertips along the carved cheek, sweeping away the chips of wood.

Peggy remembered the night in the pub, after Barnes’ passing, how devastated Steve was.

It was a wound that would never fully heal.

“We should start back,” she said quietly. “It’ll start to get dark soon.”

Steve nodded, but leaned forward and rested his head against the brow of the carving. She could see the tears on his cheeks, and turned away to allow him some privacy.

On the way back, he took her hand, and she squeezed his fingers.

It was nightfall by the time they reached the village, and far too dark to continue down the winding mountain roads. The village was small, but there was - as always - an inn. It had no rooms, but there were enough of the villagers there to ask if anyone had somewhere that two visitors could rest for the night.

A middle-aged couple offered them room in their barn. It had little luxury, they warned, but it would be warm and dry, if they didn’t mind sleeping on bales of hay. Both of them had slept on far worse, and Peggy thanked them gratefully. 

Steve hardly spoke. 

He’d worked hard on his languages and he was fairly fluent, but he was mourning and distracted. He sat by the fire as Peggy spoke to their hosts. The grief was radiating off him, and the older woman drew Peggy aside to speak out of earshot.

“Your man, he was here in the war?”

Peggy hesitated, then nodded. “He lost a friend close to here.”

The woman nodded gravely. “Many men were lost here,” she said. “The railways were used, even though we had no part in their war.” She motioned out of the inn, towards the river. “There was some accident in the mountains in 1945. An explosion. We found them in the river. German. American.”

“American?” Steve turned sharply in his chair, on the other side of the inn.

The woman looked at him in surprise as he strode across from the fireplace. “Many people,” she said. “We took care of them.”

Steve sat down in the vacant seat, the urgency in his eyes alarming. “Where did you bury him?” he demanded. “Where did you bury the American?”

Peggy caught Steve’s hand. “Steve, it might not…”

“Bury him?” The woman frowned. “Why would we bury him? He was alive.”


	13. Assembly

Howard was shaken awake by a woman.

That in itself was a novelty.

He squinted blearily at Helena. It was hardly even light enough to see her, which meant it was still before seven. His head was already aching from too much wine the night before. “Is the house on fire?”

“No, Mister Stark,” she said.

He pulled the blankets over his head. “Then leave me to sleep.”

“But Mister Stark,” she protested, shaking his shoulder again. “It’s a man on the telephone. He says you’ll want to speak to him.”

“Yeah? I can count the number of men I want to speak to on one hand.”

Helena was sounding more exasperated and less worried. “He said his name is Steve.”

Howard sat up so sharply, he collided with her. She leapt backwards, then exclaimed in embarrassment and turned around, putting her back to him. “You’ll need to put some clothes on if you are going to the phone.”

Howard looked down at himself.

Oh. Yes. Going for a swim at midnight had seemed like an incredible idea. If only he’d remembered to take off his pyjamas before getting in the water.

He hauled on his robe to preserve poor Helena’s modesty and stumbled upright. “Which telephone?”

“In the study, sir,” she said, pointedly keeping her back to him.

Howard wasn’t sure why Steve would call him, but he was willing to take any bone that Rogers wanted to throw to him. 

The last time they’d seen each other was the night he had his dinner with the Howling Commandoes, before they all headed for home. It was made pretty damn clear that night that Steve no longer wanted to even look at him, after finding out about his actions.

Rogers hadn’t said anything. He just started drawing back, stopped giving Howard some of those rare smiles, stopped speaking to him at all. Steve Rogers was one of the best men he’d ever met, and the idea that Rogers hated him made him sick to his stomach. 

He ran all the way to the study and by the time he picked up the telephone receiver, his head was spinning. “Hello?”

“Stark?”

“Captain?”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. “You offered help. Does it still stand?”

Howard sank down to sit on the chair behind the desk. “Of course, Rogers. Anything you need, I’ll do.”

Another silence, this one longer. “I need you to get over here. There’s work to do.”

Howard stared blankly at the empty glass on his desk. “Say what?”

“Get here,” Rogers said abruptly. “We’ll brief you when you arrive.”

“Rogers, I can’t just drop everything to go to Europe…” He heard the clatter of the telephone being set down on the other end and groaned, leaning back in the chair. Rogers had offered him a chance, and he was too hungover to just grab at it. “Rogers!” He all but shouted down the line, hoping the man was still there. “Rogers! Hey! Steve!”

“Stark?”

“Carter! Thank god! Is Rogers still there?”

There was a muffled exchange. It sounded heated, then Carter spoke, “We’re both still here, Stark, but we need to know if your offer of help was sincere.” She lowered her voice. “Believe me, if you value either of us, we need you here as soon as possible.”

Howard rubbed his eyes. The world was swimming and his head was hurting like hell. “Where exactly is here?”

“Geneva.” 

He got up, going to his safe. “Carter,” he said, “Do I get to know why?”

She was quiet for a moment, then simply said, “Sergeant Barnes. He may have survived the war.”

Howard’s hand froze on the dial. “Barnes? Bucky? He’s alive?”

“Maybe. That’s why we need you over here. We’ll brief you on arrival.”

If there was any question of him dropping everything, that was one of the best reasons he could think of. Anyway, since his summer expedition had been cut short, he was already ahead of schedule on most things, and anything else could be delegated until his return.

“You want Phillips to come too?”

“He’s our next call.”

“Don’t bother,” Howard said, opening up the safe. “I’ll get him on the plane with me. We should be there in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Sooner, if you can,” Carter said, then hung up.

It took all of an hour for Howard to get his basic tech together and to knock back enough aspirin and water to feel almost human. He’d called Phillips, and they met at the airfield within two hours of the Captain’s call.

One of the useful parts of being Howard Stark was having his own fleet of private planes, and he sank back into one of the passenger seats. Phillips sat down in another. Neither of them said a word about anything until they were in the air.

Howard glanced across at the older man. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

Phillips just looked at him. “Not two months ago, Captain America came back from the dead,” he said. “I’m finding it’s a lot easier to believe in miracles when that kid’s concerned, and Barnes was his best friend.”

“Barnes was only human,” Howard countered.

“Barnes was a guinea pig for my little buddy Zola,” Phillips replied shortly. “We don’t know what he did to him.” He scratched at his chin, fingernails rasping on stubble. “I sent a couple of my most boys to ask him for details. Nicely.”

Howard got up and poured himself a drink at the liquor cabinet. He held up the bottle. Phillips shook his head. “Just because he survived the fall…”

“Better not think about it,” Phillips said, watching him as he downed the contents of the glass. “All I know is that Rogers walked into enemy territory with nothing more than a dancing girl’s hat, a tinfoil shield, and a popgun and saved that man once before. Wouldn’t surprise me if he does the same again.”

Howard nodded. “Did you bring the files?”

Phillips nodded, opening up his briefcase. “Everything we have that we took from Zola. Could be there’s something in there.”

Howard returned to his seat. “Well,” he said, flipping open the first file. “Looks like I have some homework to keep me busy.” He glanced at Phillips. “You mind?”

Phillips waved him away. “I’m a soldier, son,” he said. “Give me a couple of hours of downtime and I’ll catch up on my sleep.”

Howard didn’t notice if the Colonel did that. The files were thick with information he’d skimmed over years before, but hadn’t needed. Now, anything in them might be useful, so he settled back in his chair and started reading. 

They had a brief stop in London. Phillips got out to stretch his legs and find somewhere to get some fresh air while the plane was refuelled. Howard was too busy making notes. Whatever kind of genius Zola was, he was a messed up one.

“Anything useful, Stark?” Phillips asked when they were back in the air.

“Apart from a reminder of what we allowed to get into bed with us?” Howard said, looking up. 

“Sometimes, you gotta dirty your sheets to get results,” Phillips said.

Howard knew that feeling. 

There weren’t many projects that he’d worked on that kept him awake at night. 

There was only one. 

The photographs from ground zero sickened him. The celebrations of the end of war were soured. So they had saved hundreds of thousands of lives of US citizens and cut short a bloody conflict. What about the little kid who died and left nothing behind but a burnt up lunchbox? What about the woman with the pattern of her clothes burned into her skin? What about whole families turned to nothing but ash and dust?

He glanced at his glass. It was empty again. 

Before he could stand up to go and refill it, Phillips leaned forward. “So, tell me what’s in the files,” he said. “Reads like mumbo jumbo to me. I need a translator.”

Howard hesitated, then nodded. He might need a drink, but whatever was coming, he knew he’d need to be sober for it. He leafed through his notes. “Where do you want me to start?”

Phillips shrugged. “Surprise me.”


	14. Manoeuvres

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads up that my updates may become more sporadic for a few days. Big move coming up, so less internet than I would like.
> 
> You can keep tabs on what I'm up to on tumblr: http://amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/

It was after midnight when they landed in Cointrin. Even with the stop in London, it was less than twelve hours since Stark had called him and he’d hauled ass to make it to the airport in time to fly out.

Phillips had no damn idea what he was meant to be doing there, but Carter and Rogers called, and that wasn’t a combination he would ever refuse.

Stark was asleep in his seat. Four glasses of strong liquor and speaking science at a soldier for two hours would do that to a man. A lot of what he said had gone straight over Phillips’ head, too much technology and stuff that Phillips didn’t have to worry about unless something broke down.

Phillips shook Stark awake, then headed out of the plane.

It was only fall, so it wasn’t as cold as it could be in winter. He remembered the front in the winter of 44, and that was something he had no intention of experiencing again. 

“Mr Stark?” A man approached from the hangar.

“Phillips,” he replied. “Colonel. Stark is inside. He’ll be out in a second.”

The man nodded briskly. He wasn’t someone Phillips recognised, but then he’d seen a lot of faces come and go in his time. “Agent Carter asked that we collect you. We have a car.”

“Good for you.” Phillips looked back at the plane. “Hey, Stark. Move it.”

Stark stumbled down the steps of the plane, coat on one arm, briefcase hanging from the other, and Phillips could see the spatter of fresh liquid on his shirt. He raised his eyes to the sky, praying to a God who had long since stopped answering for the patience not to wring the damn man’s neck.

“Carter sent a ride,” he said by way of explanation, catching Stark by the arm and hauling him along with him. Their driver turned and led them through the hangar. Phillips looked at Stark. “You and Rogers gonna have a problem, Stark?”

Stark winced. “That’s up to him, Colonel.”

Phillips sighed and wondered what the hell he’d done to deserve grown men who acted like goddamn children. 

The right kind of paperwork got them a long way, and they were on the road into Geneva in no time. Stark stared out into the night, his hands tight around the handle of his briefcase, and Phillips closed his eyes, taking the chance to nap again. He had a feeling that he wasn’t about to be starting a restful vacation.

Turned out he was right.

Carter met them in the lobby of the hotel. She didn’t look like she had slept at all in days, and she didn’t wait before leading them up to a suite. Rogers was there, sitting at the table, going through a mountain of files. He barely even looked up.

“You want to give me details on why the hell I dragged my ass back to Europe?” Phillips demanded, setting his case down and shedding his coat.

Carter looked at Stark. “I thought Stark…”

“Stark told me that Captain Marvellous’s friend may have survived the fall,” Phillips said, striding across to the table and Rogers. “I’m looking for detail here.” He sat down opposite the man. “What do you have for us, Rogers?”

Steve looked up. He was haggard and unshaven but there was fire in his eyes, and rage. That was the very damn thing that led him to knock on Schmidt’s front door. 

“He survived the fall,” he said, his voice clipped. “Badly injured his left arm, and almost froze in the rapids in the mountains. Washed up by the village, and they looked after him as much as they could.”

“Someone else found him there?” Stark asked quietly.

Rogers didn’t so much as look at him. His eyes moved back to his paperwork, and he shuffled through them, bringing a page to the fore. “Armed men passed through. Military division of some kind.” Blue eyes met Phillips’ again. “Russian troops. They took him.”

Phillips frowned, leaning in to look at the notes. “Russians? What the hell were they doing all the way up there?”

Rogers shook his head. “That’s what we don’t know. Or why they would take a wounded American prisoner. The man who looked after Bucky said he was in a bad way, but stable enough to travel, and they put him in the back of one of their trunks. Knocked down the people who tried to stop them.” He rose and leaned over the table, to pull a notepad towards him. Something metallic swung loose from his shirt. Dogtags. Barnes’ dogtags. “I asked them to describe the insignia, but this is the best they could give me.”

He slid the paper across the table, and that was when Phillips noticed the gold band on his finger. He looked at it, then back up at Rogers’ face. Rogers could be implacable when he was hiding something, so he looked at Carter, sitting on the couch beside Howard, and saw the ring’s twin on her finger.

“You kids got something you need to tell me?”

“It’s hardly important at the moment, Colonel,” Carter demurred.

Phillips snorted. “Captain America and one of Shield’s top agents get married and it’s ‘hardly important’?”

“She’s right, Colonel,” Rogers said, “and it’s private. The mission isn’t.” He tapped the edge of the page. “Do you recognise this?”

Phillips looked between them, shaking his head. They’d spent the whole damn time through the war making cow’s eyes at each other and now, they’d gone off on a mission, tied the knot, and found another member of the living dead.

He turned his attention to the sketch. It wasn’t an insignia he’d seen firsthand, but something about it rang a bell. He pulled the paper closer, staring at it. “You had anyone else look into this?” he asked.

Rogers sat back in the chair. “We’ve been in touch with the NATO and UN offices to let them know we’re active,” he said. “They’re aware of SHIELD, and as long as we don’t… cause problems, we’re okay to investigate.”

Cause problems.

A hell of a way to say “Don’t go charging into Russia”.

“You get anywhere with them?” Phillips asked. “Or are they still sitting on their hands about everything?”

Rogers shook his head, folding his hands in front of him on the table.

Carter rose from the couch. “They were very kind,” she said, approaching them. She stood behind Rogers, putting her hands on his shoulders and squeezing. Rogers seemed to relax under the contact and he looked up at her with a tired, sad smile. “But they said that there’s very little information about rogue military units in that period.”

“Very little information my ass,” Phillips snorted. He looked over at Stark. “You got any input on this, Boy Genius?”

Stark looked like a rabbit caught in the headlamps. “Me?”

“You worked with most of the intel that came through,” Phillips said. He held out the paper. “You ever come across this? I’m pretty sure I’ve seen it somewhere, but I got a hell of a lot of paperwork crossing my desk then. I don’t remember every picture.”

Stark approached cautiously, and took the paper. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “Yeah, I know this.” He rubbed his eyes , frowning. “God, I saw it in one of the files.” He turned, walking in a tight circle, knocking the knuckle of his forefinger against his brow. “It was when the Captain and his men were out east.”

He hurried over to the table and snatched the pen up, drawing sharper lines onto Rogers’ sketch. 

“They must have only seen part of it,” he said, turning the paper around and pushing it towards Rogers, who looked down at it. Rogers hesitated, then put out his hand and pulled it closer, his eyes fixed on the image.

“Do you know it?” Carter asked, sounding both apprehensive and hopeful.

Rogers nodded, smoothing the paper with both hands. “I saw it in Kronas,” he said quietly. He sounded way too calm. “That village that the Red Skull levelled.” He withdrew his hands from the paper. “There was a Soviet garrison there, trying to get to the Skull as well.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember much, but they wore this insignia.” A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I had… words with their commanding officer, Karpov. He wanted to raid the factory before we destroyed it.”

“But there’s no reason they should have been this far west,” Carter said. “There was far too much going on, on their side of Europe.”

“Especially not in that gorge,” Stark added. “The only reason you were there was because of Hydra.”

Rogers’ palms were resting against the edge of the table. He was staring at his fingers, the knuckles white. 

“God damn it!” he swore suddenly, slamming both hands down hard enough to crack the wood. He surged to his feet and stormed across the room, pulling the window open, to take deep breaths of the night air.

“What is it, Steve?” Carter’s voice was quiet, calm.

He didn’t reply at once, his hands braced on either side of the frame. He looked like he could tear the place to pieces, the muscles in his shoulder bunching under his shirt. 

“They didn’t come for the war,” he said. “They came for the weapons.” He turned around, looking at them bleakly. “They were hunting Hydra too, but not because they wanted to stop them.” He sat back on the window ledge. “Karpov wanted the Skull’s weapons.” He dragged his hand over his face. “That’s why they were here. They were trying to find the factories, and salvage the weapons that we didn’t destroy.” He laughed bitterly. “They got Bucky instead.”

“Did they know who he was?” Phillips said, trying to get a measure of how bad it could be for the kid. 

“If Karpov was still in command, yeah.” Rogers stared blankly at the floor. 

“Then it isn’t a coincidence they took him.” Stark murmured. 

“But Bucky isn’t going to be any use to them,” Rogers said, his voice unsteady. “He’s just a soldier. He’s not a weapon.”

Phillips looked at Stark. He’d read the reports, and read between the lines. 

“Maybe he wasn’t before,” Stark said, “but you’re not the only person to be experimented on, Rogers.”

Rogers’ face went grey and tight with rage. “Explain,” he said. “Now.”


	15. Reconciliation

Steve was angry.

It wasn’t an emotion he enjoyed.

It was why, when Stark was done, he turned and walked out of the hotel room, out of the hotel, right out into the street. It was why he started running, pounding at the dirt beneath his feet as if it had done him wrong. 

He didn’t know how far he ran, up into the forests on the edge of the city, but it was far enough so they didn’t have to see him lose his temper. They were his friends, his allies, and lashing out at them wouldn’t help anyone. 

It was quiet up there, and dark, and he sat down on a boulder, burying his head in his hands.

Zola.

That little bastard had done more than anyone had ever realised to Bucky before Steve hauled him out of Schmidt’s prison. They didn’t know all the details, but Phillips promised to chase it up with his boys back at SHIELD. Zola, he promised, would tell them everything.

He’d never asked.

He just figured that since Bucky was walking and talking, it hadn’t got too far. Turned out he was wrong about that. The files mentioned days, weeks. Bucky had been Zola’s plaything for weeks, kept alive and used for god only knew what.

He wanted to fly back home and march into SHIELD, wrap his hands around the smug son of a bitch’s throat, and squeeze every last secret out of him. The man had been working for SHIELD! He was a sick, twisted son of a bitch who had tortured their men and they were working with him, using him like he wasn’t a goddamned war criminal!

Phillips swore blind they’d get rid of him now.

They didn’t know what he’d done.

The hell they didn’t.

He worked for Schmidt, willingly. How could he be anything but a bad guy?

But then, the world was turning, and he’d been in the ice. So much had happened that he had missed. There were reasons, and excuses. Sometimes, you had to use whatever assets you had, even if you felt dirty afterwards.

He looked back in the direction of the city, glittering in the night.

They would find out what happened to Bucky.

They would make it right.

And if Bucky was still alive, he would find him.

He got up, glancing up at the stars. 

It was peaceful up here. 

Quiet. 

It helped.

Instead of running back, he walked most of the way, and by the time he got back to the hotel, the sun was starting to rise. He hoped Peggy would have taken the chance to rest without him waking her every other hour, but she was probably waiting for him, worried.

The lobby of the hotel was empty, and he hesitated there.

“So you’re back.”

He turned, startled, at Stark’s voice. 

Stark leaned over the arm of a high-backed chair in front of the fireplace. “Told your girl to get some sleep. Said I’d watch for you.”

Steve approached him guardedly. The man was a mess, dressed down in nothing but his shirt sleeves. He didn’t look like he’d slept, his face unshaven and his eyes ringed in shadow. He beckoned with one hand, the other occupied with pouring another glass of some kind of liquor.

“Are you sure you should be drinking so early?”

Stark gave him a baleful look. “What are you? My mother?” He snorted, setting the bottle down, then picked up the glass. He swirled the liquid around slowly, watching it. “Sometimes, you need a drink.” 

The Howard Stark that Steve remembered would have disagreed.

Stark all but lived his lab. Work was his focus. There was nothing else, except the occasional flirtation when an attractive woman crossed his path. 

This new Stark seemed to get a glass in his hand at every opportunity, and that wasn’t like him. The war must have done a number on him as well.

Steve sat down on the couch, watching him.

“You think about it, don’t you?”

Stark had slumped back in the chair, brooding over the glass. “Think about what?” he asked, tilting the glass to catch the light of the glowing embers in the fireplace. 

“The bombs.”

Stark turned his head slowly to look at him. “We all made sacrifices, Captain,” he said. “You saved people your way. I did what I could to save people mine.” He knocked back the contents of the glass and slammed it down on the table. “Hundreds of thousands of American soldiers. All safe.” He laughed, but it was a broken sound. “They celebrated, y’know. The bombs. The end of the war. They celebrated.”

Steve looked down at his hands. “They always do,” he said quietly, “when they aren’t the ones who are dying.”

Stark made a small, choked sound, almost a sob. “There were kids. Families. Not even soldiers.” 

He reached for the glass again, but his hands were shaking so much that it slipped, falling and shattering on the floor. He swore, his voice cracking, and he scrambled down onto the floor to gather up the pieces. Steve dropped down to his knees too, catching Howard’s wrists before the man could cut his hand to ribbons.

“Don’t,” he said, holding Howard’s wrists gently in his hands. Howard’s fingers were already scratched up. “Leave it, Howard.”

Stark looked up at him bleakly. “How? How can I leave it? I can’t get it out of my head.”

Steve slid his hands down to Howard’s elbows, and lifted him to his feet. “Sometimes, you have to live with your mistakes,” he said. “Believe me, I know.”

Howard shook his head. “You’re a hero,” he said. “You save people from crazy scientists who want to blow up whole cities.” He was shaking, and laughed hysterically. “What the hell does that make me to you? How does that make me any different from _him_?”

Steve pulled the man closer and wrapped his arm around him. Stark shivered, then clung to him with a desperation that broke his heart. “Because you regret it,” he said gently. “You’re my friend, Stark. You’re nothing like him.”

Howard’s head fell forward, his brow knocking against Steve’s shoulder. Steve patted him on the back comfortingly, rubbing between his shoulders.

For a few minutes, they just stood there, not even moving, then Howard pulled back, with a rueful laugh, and wiped at his cheeks with the back of his hand. “God, I must be tired,” he said. “Crying like a girl.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of, Stark,” Steve murmured. “Mourn for the people who died. It’s natural.”

“You make it sound easy.”

Steve shook his head. “It isn’t,” he said. “But you have to get by. Make a better world.”

Howard nodded. “A better world,” he agreed. “Maybe with some sleep.”

Steve couldn’t help but smile wryly. “We can try.”

Stark nudged him as they started towards the stairs. “Your wife exhausting you already, huh, Rogers? Finally found a way to wear you out?”

Steve looked at him, and the cautious hope in Howard’s face reminded him of someone else, someone who had supported him all the way. “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” he replied mildly.

For a moment, Stark’s smirk looked like the one he’d worn years before. “So there’s kissing, is there?”

And just for a moment, Steve could almost smile. “You’ve seen Peggy,” he said. “What do you think?”

Howard stopped on the landing, catching his arm. He pulled Steve around to face him, and critically looked him up and down. “I think,” he said, “you’re going to need all the help that serum can give you, Captain.”

For the first time in the four days since they found out about Bucky, Steve laughed.


	16. Intelligence

There was a balance again, at last.

Stark and Steve were back on amicable terms. It was far better than the awkward, furious tension that had filled their every encounter after Steve learned how the war in the Pacific came to an abrupt and searing end.

Peggy had no idea what Stark had said, or what had been said to him, but for the first time, it was as if they were back in the bunkers in London, making plans. 

They chose to head back to those very bunkers only two days later, to use them as a base of operation. It was much more secure, discreet, and far simpler than trying to coordinate an international investigation through a rather shaky network within Switzerland.

Even within those bunkers, they had very little to go on, in point of fact. 

As far as Stark could tell from Zola’s cryptic notes, the man had been working on a version of the serum that had been so effective for Steve. It was far from complete, and it sounded like Bucky was only in the early stages of the trial, but it was possibly enough to preserve him after the fall.

Steve had sketched an image of the room where he had discovered Bucky. 

For something drawn from a decade-old memory, it was unsurprisingly rough. Fortunately, some of the equipment he remembered was familiar to Stark, who immediately started riffling through the notes again, searching for data to match the tools.

She and Phillips, meanwhile, were pursuing all legal and legitimate means of gathering information about Karpov and his brigade. Most available sources had very little information about any of the Russian regiments, especially not one as small and covert as Karpov’s. A handful of reports from the allied forces were all they had to show for their efforts.

From everything they could piece together, Karpov’s unit was doing exactly as Steve had said: picking up any scraps that Captain America and the Howling Commandoes left behind, going through the rubble like vultures. They had been spotted at various sites across Europe, more often than not shortly after a factory or munitions store had been destroyed.

The last mention was from the people in the village in the mountains.

Whether Karpov and his prize survived or not was unknown. 

Their best guess was that the unit had turned back towards Russia, but whether or not they got there was the question. Of course, getting information about anyone formerly or presently in the Russian military was going to be about as easy as finding hen’s teeth.

Peggy wasn’t sure whether she or Phillips went towards the less than legal route first.

It was a quiet Wednesday morning when she set out. Steve was already occupied in the laboratories with Stark and some of the other technicians they had rustled up. She returned to their hotel room, donned her best suit like armour, her make-up like war paint, and set off in the direction of West Ealing. 

Many of the operatives she had liaised with during the war had been transferred, so she had no direct point of contact, but her name and credentials were enough to have her shown into a private office on the fourth floor. 

A brass plaque with the name “L. Brown” was on the door. The office itself was elegant and empty. She was left there, and sat down in front of the broad desk, her hands folded in her lap, and waited.

Half an hour elapsed before another door finally opened in between the bookshelves.

A middle-aged man with iron-grey hair entered. “Miss Carter.”

Peggy clenched her teeth into a smile and rose, extending her hand. “Agent Carter,” she corrected. 

“Agent.” He circled the desk and sat down, motioning for her to do the same. She watched him, catching the way he had to adjust the chair. If it was his chair, she thought, she would eat her best hat. “Might I know what brings you here?”

She saw no reason to beat around the bush.

“I am not here to speak with someone of such a low rank, sir,” she said coolly, rising from her chair. “Your superiors are well aware of who I am, and the capacity in which I work. If they wish to know what I am about, I can be found at the Dorchester.”

She strode back towards the door, and had barely put her hand on the handle when the other door opened again.

“There’s no need to be hasty, Agent Carter.” 

She turned with a slight smile. Another man was standing by the first, older, his hair silver, and his blue eyes lined. “Mr Brown, I presume.”

He bowed slightly at the waist. “It will suffice.” He waved a hand, dismissing the other man. “I apologise for the subterfuge, but we have many people wasting our time, claiming to have vital information about Ruskie spies.”

“Yes, I would imagine so,” she agreed, returning back to the desk. “And my identifying your false man was enough?”

Brown chuckled. “Hardly, Agent,” he said. “That was your manner. I may not have encountered you during the war, but you were quite the legend.” He motioned for her to sit, taking his own seat once she had done so. “My men downstairs said that you have a matter pertaining to the Russian forces that you wish to discuss.”

By the time she left, she had made a little progress, though she knew it was not the kind of progress that would help Steve rest any easier. 

The laboratory was quiet when she returned. Steve was nowhere to be found, and she had to hunt to locate Stark and Phillips in one of the offices on the ground level.

“Where’s Captain Rogers?” Even now, it was habit to call him that in front of anyone else.

Stark, a file in his hand, looked up at her, then across the table at Phillips. “I’m not explaining,” he said flatly, turning back to the file. 

“I had a call from home,” Phillips said. He had his elbows propped on the table, and steepled his fingers in front of him. “The boys finally persuaded Zola that it would be a good time to get chatty. Rogers was here when they called.”

Peggy’s heart sank. “Did he say what he did?”

“Not all the details,” Phillips said heavily. “But more than enough to piss your boy off to high heaven.”

Peggy nodded slowly. She knew what that would do to Steve. She know exactly where he would go. “I was able to get some information from MI6 regarding Karpov,” she said, withdrawing her notepad and tossing it down on the table. “I doubt it’ll be much use, but if you can see what you can do, I’ll find the Captain.”

It felt like she had stepped back in time, only this time, there were no air raids or rubble.

The bar had been rebuilt, and the paintwork and brass still shone. It looked much the same as it was before the raid that turned half the block to ash and ruin, though it was empty so early in the day.

Steve was leaning on the edge of the bar where once, years before, she had interrupted his conversation with the man they were now looking for. There was a glass between his hands, half-full.

Peggy approached the bar on his left, leaving the space empty where Barnes had once stood.

Steve didn’t say anything, but when she laid her hand on the bar, he unfolded his fingers from the glass and reached out blindly to clasp hers. His hand was cold again. 

“Did they tell you?”

Peggy shook her head. “Only that you’d found out more.”

He looked at her, his eyes bloodshot. He was as devastated as he had been that night. “That son of a bitch had been torturing him for weeks,” he said, his voice unsteady. “He froze him up like a slab of meat, just to bring him back and see what it would do to him.” His grip was tight on Peggy’s hand, so tight she almost winced. “They hurt him, Peggy. They hurt him and he never told me.”

She covered their linked hands with her other hand. “You and he are more alike than you know,” she said gently. “When you’re in pain, you don’t want anyone to know about it either, or to make a fuss.”

Steve shook his head. “This is different,” he said. “He should never have gone back out there with me. Not after all that.”

She gazed at him. “Some would say you should never have gone out after him to begin with,” she murmured. “You made your choice, as did he.” She squeezed his hand between hers. “It wasn’t your fault, Steve. Not any of it. It was Zola, and it was Karpov.”

He nodded unhappily, pushing the glass away from him.

“Did you find anything?” he asked, drawing his hand from hers to run it over his face.

“Some basic intelligence,” she said apologetically. “I’ve left Stark and the Colonel to go through it, to see if they can make anything more out than I was able to.” She looked down at the bar. “I wish I could bring better news.”

“It’s something,” he said, straightening up from the bar. He looked drawn, pale, and she wondered if he’d remembered to eat. He often didn’t. Sometimes, she wondered if his body was still trying to lapse back into the hibernation that had preserved him in the ice. “We should probably get back.”

“Not at once,” Peggy said. She slipped her arm through his. “We’re going to take a couple of hours.”

“Is that my wife or Agent Carter talking?” There was only a little animosity in his tone, but it was more than usual.

She looked up at him. “I will pull rank on you if I must,” she said quietly, “but at this very moment, I don’t think you or I will be of any use to anyone. Better that we take a moment and gather our strength, then return, don’t you think?”

He rubbed at his eyes. “God, I’m sorry, Peggy,” he said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Your friend was hurt,” she said simply. “If you were hurt, I would react exactly the same way.”

“Exactly?”

She lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “Well, I would probably have shot someone by now, but yes. Almost exactly the same way.”

A faint, tired smile reached his eyes. “Has anyone ever told you you’re one of a kind?”

She had to smile in return. “Well, I should hope so,” she said. She patted his forearm. “So, Captain, will you join me for dinner?”

He nodded. “I’d be honoured.”


	17. Fishing

“If this goes wrong, we could end up in a lot of trouble.”

The Colonel was sitting behind his desk, reading a newspaper and didn’t even bother to look up at Howard. “You know, for someone who’s so smart, you state the obvious a hell of a lot, son.”

Howard tapped the file against his hand. “I’ve got every right to be concerned.”

The newspaper was lowered just enough so he could see Phillips’ eyes. “Course you do,” he said. “You screw this up, and it’s not just your neck on the line.”

They were in the depths of the bunkers that were their operational base, and mercifully, Carter and Rogers were elsewhere. They usually were for an hour or two when Rogers started going quiet and still. Those were the moments when Carter would walk away from whatever she was doing, taken him by the arm, and they would leave the bunker.

Stark didn’t ask where they went or what they did, and neither of them would say. It wasn’t a secret that Rogers was having a hard time, and they didn’t need to know that Howard felt like running away through a brick wall, as far the hell away as he could get.

He wouldn’t.

Not as long as he was needed.

And he was needed, by all of them.

They’d dug up every bit of available information on Rogers’ mysterious Russian, but it wasn’t nearly enough. It had taken weeks to even get that far. The last known reports were that his brigade had survived the war, and disappeared somewhere in the morass of people that made up the NKVD, the Russian military and security service.

Some sketchy reports said the man was involved in the Russian equivalent of Hydra: the development of weapons and technology. The way his company had been lurking like vultures on sites hit by the Howling Commandoes suggested he was on the hunt to improve the Russian arsenals, with cast-offs and scraps, if necessary.

Rogers insisted quietly that the factories were left as nothing more than melted slag. Anything Karpov took would have been almost useless. They’d made sure that no one would be able to take advantage of the Skull’s weaponry. 

From the way Rogers was talking, the only thing of any worth that was stolen was Bucky himself.

That was as far as they had reached: Karpov was in Russia.

It wasn’t enough, not by a long shot, and it wasn’t as if they could just call up the Russian Embassy and say “Hey, our Red Buddies. How about you tell us where we can find this son of a gun, because Captain America would love to have a little talk with him?”

Howard sat down on the edge of Phillips’ desk, looking at the file in his hands.

“I didn’t sign on to be a traitor,” he said quietly.

Behind him, Phillips sighed, and folded up the newspaper, setting it down.

“It’s not being a traitor if you’re selling them information that isn’t worth anything,” the Colonel said. “You said yourself that the tech looks good on these things, but it won’t go anywhere, right?”

“Not without a hell of a lot of developments,” Howard said, opening the folder up again. He looked at the blueprints. “My best guess is at least fifty years before we’re anywhere near capable of building anything like this, and by then, it might be obsolete.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Howard look at him. “I’m selling my goddamned technology to Russia, when we’re at war with them,” he said. “What the hell do you think my problem is?”

Phillips leaned back in his seat, tapping his fingertips on the arm of the chair. “You want to shout a little louder, Stark? I’m pretty sure there’s some pigeon out there who didn’t hear you.”

Howard dropped down into the seat opposite him. “Don’t you think we should get this cleared with the CIA? At least let them know?”

Phillips looked at him gravely. “You think there aren’t people in there who would sell that little titbit of information on? That Howard Stark is planning on screwing over the Russians with fakey intel? You think that’s gonna help anyone?”

Howard rocked his head against the back of the chair. “I’m a scientist, not a goddamned spy, Phillips.”

“I can really tell,” Phillips said dryly. He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “You know I could do it. Position like mine? Every chance that information could come into my hands, and hell, I’m old. Maybe I want to retire in comfort, and I know that even an old vet like me could get screwed over when I stand down. Makes sense for me to line my pockets while I can.”

Howard shook his head. “No.”

Phillips met his eyes. “Why not? You weren’t wrong. This goes wrong, and we get busted, we can look forward to a nice long term spent behind bars. You’re a young man, Stark. What do I have left apart from retirement and a dock to go fishing from?”

Stark shook his head. “They’d believe it more from me,” he said finally. “I have to be the one to do this, and you know it. They know my reputation. They know what I build. They know what I was involved with.”

For once, the experience with the bombs was going to serve him well.

It was ironic that the thing that had almost driven a permanent wedge between him and Captain Rogers was the very thing they needed to get Rogers some more information about his long-lost friend.

Howard set the folder down on Phillips’ desk. “What do we tell them?”

“The lovebirds?” Phillips shrugged. “You know Rogers’ll tell you can’t do it, and go all Captain Patriotic on you. And Carter…” He scratched at his chin thoughtfully. “Well, Carter’s sharp. She already suspects we’re up to something, but as long as it gets us the information Rogers needs, I’d put money on her turning a blind eye.”

“So we don’t tell them.”

“Damn straight.” Phillips got up from behind his desk. “If we’re the only ones who know about it, we’re the only ones who can screw it up, and no one else needs to get in any trouble, especially not Rogers. The kid’s done enough for his country. Least we can do is try and give him some closure.”

Howard rubbed his finger across his forehead. His head was aching and he wanted a drink, but he had to keep a level head. This wasn’t just a game, and Phillips was trusting him to do his job. He couldn’t do that if he had a drink in him.

“So how do we do this?”

For a man who was loyal to the US Government and allied forces, Phillips was a cunning old fox. 

He knew people, he said, who knew people, who could speak the right kind of word to the right kind of people, who - if overheard by the wrong kind of people in the right kind of context - could make sure their very carefully chosen words reached the ears they were meant to.

“If I didn’t know better,” Stark said, when Phillips finished explaining, “I’d swear you were a spy.”

“Ha!” Phillips snorted, his face creased up in amusement. “Who’d believe that? Some old goon like me, been in the army since I was old enough to walk? Only good for keeping tabs on scientists and giving orders and yelling at dumb greenhorns? I’m sure as hell not smart enough to be a spy.”

Howard’s mouth turned up at once side. “Sure,” he said. 

The Colonel chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, “but don’t let the world know. I kind of like being good, old, grumpy Colonel Phillips.”

“If I did tell anyone,” Howard said wryly, “who the hell would believe me?”

Phillips smiled. “Not a damn soul, son,” he said.

Staring at him, Howard felt the ball of terror unravelling around his gut. The old man looked calm and confident, and if he’d kept that much of himself hidden for years, how could his plan not work? 

“So,” he said, “you ready to help me try and sell my designs to the Russians?”

Phillips rubbed his hands together. “Let’s go fishing.”


	18. Omission

All things considered, Stark wasn’t doing a bad job.

Not that Phillips had any intentions of telling him that, but in his role as a jaded engineer who disapproved of the uses his weapons were put to, Stark didn’t have to reach far. The right kind of people were taking notice, but it was taking time.

Phillips knew how things like this went. 

You had to play the waiting game a hell of a lot, drip-feeding information through implication, speculation, setting the frame for how you wanted people to see it, and watching for the ripples on the water that told you when something was about to bite.

Winter in London was easier than winter in Europe. They had places to stay, they were warm, and they were out of the way while the work was being done, but that wasn’t enough for Rogers.

With every day that went by, the man was getting more on edge.

When he wasn’t reading over incoming intel from every source they had, he was pacing around the bunker like an angry bear, or beating the hell out of the punch bags in the gymnasium set up for him. 

Carter was the only one who could calm him down, and more often than not, she was looking as exhausted as Rogers.

The man wasn’t sleeping right, but that had been a problem for months. Sedatives didn’t help, and it was all Carter could do to keep him from tearing off across to Russia to start kicking down doors and demanding answers.

It wasn’t any big surprise.

When the son of bitch cared about someone, he would be loyal to them to the bitter end.

Years before, Phillips had seen the scrawny kid throw himself on a grenade for a whole brigade of people who didn’t give a damn about him. For one of the few people who always had accepted him, Rogers would have dived on a hundred.

He didn’t know everything that was going on.

Phillips had made damned sure of that, but coming up on December, Carter cornered him in the offices, closing the door behind her. He didn’t know how she could manage to shut the door in such an English way, but when it clicked closed, he could tell why she was there.

She didn’t turn, not right away, her hand still on the handle of the door.

“Might I have a word, Colonel?”

“Been wondering when you might stop by, Carter.”

She looked around at him, and approached his desk, then sat down opposite him. “I didn’t want to press matters,” she said, folding her hands in her lap, right over left. She’d taken to doing that, so she could rub her index finger against her wedding band. “I know there has been action taken, but I’m afraid I need to know if there is progress.”

Phillips sat back in his chair, propping his elbow on the arm and ran his fingers over his jaw. “How much do you have us pegged for?”

“MI6 were considering putting Stark under more focussed surveillance, as he had been expressing some rather negative sentiments in a hotel in the West End,” she said, meeting his eyes. “I dissuaded them.” Her lips twitched, as if she was trying to smile, but it faded almost at once. “Was I right to do so?”

No big surprise there.

Stark was being watched by pretty much everyone.

“Good call,” he said. “We don’t need more eyes on him.”

Carted breathed out, so quietly it was barely noticeable, but he knew the many moods of Agent Carter, and he could tell she was relieved. “Steve is trying to be patient,” she said. “He knows the less we know about what’s happening, the better, and he understands that these things take time, but if there’s any progress, can we at least know that much?”

Phillips nodded. “You know we don’t keep you in the dark on purpose.”

“No,” she agreed, “but from what I’m seeing and hearing through my contacts, I’m rather glad I didn’t know what you were up to before.” She refolded her hands, left over right. “How far is Stark intending to go with this subterfuge? If people from our side are starting to get suspicious, he could be putting himself in very real danger.”

“If people from our side are starting to get suspicious, that’s exactly what we need,” Phillips said flatly. “You knew this wasn’t going to be all smooth sailing, Carter. If they’re suspicious on our side, that means people on the other side are watching too.”

“Steve wouldn’t want anyone put at risk.”

“Anyone but himself, you mean,” Phillips corrected. “If we don’t get answers soon, your boy’ll ship himself to Russia in a packing crate to find them himself.” He shook his head. “Stark’s smart, and I’m watching his back. You just keep your husband from becoming Captain Self-Sacrifice and we should all get through this alive.”

“Easier said than done,” Carter murmured. “You know how well he takes sitting in the sidelines.”

Phillips surely did.

He remembered being woken in the dead of night in a camp a dozen miles from the border with Austria. He remembered being told one of the small planes was missing, along with three of the people who should never have been left alone together, because when spunk and recklessness and heroism were mixed, it never resulted in anything pretty. 

He had been standing on the edge of the landing area when Stark and Carter returned, two hours later. Stark was unrepentant, Carter was stone-faced, and the Star-Spangled Hero of America was MIA, all because the son of a bitch didn’t know how to take a goddamned order.

Phillips drummed his fingertips on the edge of the table.

They were on the edge of getting the right kind of attention, but the trouble was that to get it, you had to take even more risks than just saying something in a bar and trusting that it would reach the right kind of ears. Maybe people were listening, but unless they could see any real reason to come closer, they would just keep watching, and sometimes, they would just walk away.

Sometimes, you needed a gesture.

He met Carter’s eyes across the desk. “If you wanna tell Captain Courageous that Stark’s selling out to try and get the information we need, be my guest,” he said. “He can find him at that hotel that’s way too classy for the likes of us.”

Carter stared at him. “Blow his cover?”

Phillips smiled slightly. “Blow it? Carter, having the goddamned American Dream go after him would make people sit up and pay attention. Just make sure you give your golden boy the right information to make him do what we need him to do.”

“Lie, you mean?”

Phillips lifted his shoulders slightly. “I was more thinking strategic omission,” he said. “You know he won’t be happy, either way. One way, Stark’s selling to the Russians. The other way, Stark’s risking his life on the Cap’s behalf.” He got up from the desk. “You said it yourself that Rogers doesn’t do the sidelines. Give him something to do.”

“I won’t lie to him.”

“Carter, stop fooling yourself,” Phillips snapped. “How much have you told him about MI6’s eyes on Stark?” He could tell by the way her lips pressed together that she hadn’t said a damned thing. “If you’re going to be honest with him about what I’m doing, you’re gonna have to start telling him what you’ve been keeping from him.”

Her hands folded again, right over left, and he saw the tips of her fingers whiten as she pressed them against her wedding ring. “He wouldn’t want anyone put in danger on his behalf.”

“And we wouldn’t want him put in danger because he’s too goddamned heroic for his own health,” Phillips retorted. “You’ve got a call to make, Carter. You can go and spill all our plans and see how well that goes, or you can tell him what he needs to know, to make people listen to Stark. We need information we can’t get with honesty and decency and you know it.”

Carter got up slowly and smoothed down her jacket. “You’re right,” she said, “but I can’t and won’t keep him in the dark. This is his friend we’re looking for, Colonel. It’s destroying him, not knowing. I have to tell him.”

“You know that could cost us any chance we have of getting what we need.”

She nodded, her face a blank mask. “I know,” she said, “but he deserves better than lies.”

“He deserves a better world, Carter, but this is the only one we’ve got.” He waved her towards the door. “I can’t give you orders now, Agent, but I sure as hell am not going to be the one to risk the whole goddamned operation because of a few little white lies.”

“Understood, sir.”

There was something about the way her tone became even more clipped and formal that told him he’d really pissed her off. She didn’t storm out. She wasn’t the storming kind. She turned, calm and cool as ice, and walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind her.

He rubbed his eyelids with forefinger and thumb.

Either way she decided to tell it, Stark was about to get an unexpected visit from everyone’s favourite hero.


	19. Attention

Stark’s hotel was high-class.

Steve had seen hotels like that before, but only on his US tour, when he was just an action figure for the Senator to put on display.

In those kind of places, it was all about the attitude.

He strode in like he owned the place and asked to see Stark.

It didn’t come as a big surprise that Stark was in the lounge. He was sprawled comfortably in a chair, talking to a pretty blonde, but the second Steve entered the room, he sat up, almost spilling his drink on his shirt. 

“Rogers?”

Steve nodded. He wasn’t sure what he’d come to say. Or do. He’d listened to Peggy, and she had explained everything, and all he knew was that he wanted to at least let Stark know how much he was putting on the line.

“We need to talk.”

Stark set the glass down on the table in front of him, and turned his devil-may-care smile on the woman. “Don’t go anywhere, sweetheart,” he said, patting her on the knee, before rising and approaching Steve. He moved cautiously, like he expected a blow. Steve could remember moving like that a long while ago. “I have a suite upstairs.”

Steve clenched and unclenched his fists.

Stark was putting it all on the line, he knew, but he was doing it so they could find Bucky.

As much as he didn’t want Stark in trouble, he had to know what happened.

He wasn’t good at subterfuge or spying, not in the way that proper agents were, but Peggy said Stark was being watched, and the best he could do was get Stark the attention they all needed to get them information.

He grabbed the man’s arm, and dragged him out into the lobby. A few of the guests and the concierge exclaimed in surprise, but Steve ignored them. He hauled the man across to one of the hallways opposite, darker hallways, probably where the staff came and went, and slammed him up against the wall and hard.

Stark yelped in startled pain. The panic on his face was genuine.

It was all Steve could do to spread his hand on Stark’s chest, holding him there, hoping to god that he would realise what Steve was trying to do.

“I know what you’ve been doing, Stark,” he said, his voice low. “I didn’t think you were this stupid.”

Stark stared at him, wide-eyed. He raised his hands. “Rogers, I…”

The click of a gun silenced him.

Steve’s hand pressed a little harder to Stark’s chest, holding him still. The poor guy’s heart was racing under his palm. He turned his head to look over his shoulder. For a high-class hotel, they had high-quality security.

“Step away,” the uniformed man said. “Hands up, if you please.”

Steve turned back to Stark, then smiled as much as he could, until his cheeks ached. He smoothed Stark’s rumpled shirt and jacket. “Just having a little talk with my friend here,” he said, straightening Stark’s tie. “Weren’t we, Stark?”

Stark nodded, licking his lips. “Yes,” he said, then pulled on that cocky asshole mask he wore as neatly as his suit. “Yeah.” He smacked Steve firmly on the shoulder. “This guy just wanted my attention a little faster than I gave it.” He chuckled. “What can I say? Americans, huh? We don’t do things quietly.”

The guard lowered the gun, looking doubtfully at Steve. “You’re sure, sir? We could have him escorted out.”

Steve glanced around.

People were watching. 

People had taken notice. 

Maybe they were the targets, or maybe not. 

Either way, he’d done all he could to fan the flames. He just hoped it was enough, because he didn’t want to have to see fear on the faces of any of his friends again. 

“No need,” he said. He pushed by the guard, knocking the guard’s shoulder with his own. “We’re done here. I can see myself out.”

He got maybe four paces before Stark called after him.

“Hey. Steve.”

Steve paused, glancing back. “What?”

“You have no idea.” Stark’s voice was quiet, Steve noticed, but loud enough to be heard by any one of their scattered audience. “You have no idea what it was like after the war ended. You think you can judge me?”

He turned around to look Stark in the face. “I think I can,” he said. He shook his head, feigning disgust. “We’re done.”

After the stillness and muted propriety of the hotel, the sleet-spattered streets sounded loud and busy. Steve took a breath of the chilly air and walked as quickly as he could back in the direction of the bunkers. He was halfway there when he noticed he had a tail.

Two side-streets, one cut through a subway station, a detour through a store, then another subway, and the tail lost him. 

He, however, didn’t lose the tail. 

He watched from the shadow of a side alley as the man turned this way and that, trying to find him, then - frustrated - turned and headed back into the subway.

Whoever the man was, he clearly didn’t expect anyone to follow him.

To his credit, he’d kept up pretty well, but very few people could stalk Steve without his knowledge.

Years of being easy pickings made him more aware of his surroundings, long before the serum had enhanced his senses. It also meant that he knew how to avoid notice. It was harder now, being taller and broader, but some habits stayed with you: hunching your shoulders, keeping your head down, making yourself look inconspicuous. 

He slipped down into the subway, keeping to the back of the crowd, and followed the man back onto the train, getting onto a different carriage, this one almost empty. When the train moved off, he withdrew his purchase from the bag: a non-descript overcoat grabbed from a stand and paid for before his tail caught up with him.

It didn’t take much effort to look different.

On the way to Stark’s hotel, Steve was walking tall, broad and noticeable. 

Now, his shoulders were slouched and his oversized coat hid the crisp lines of the suit beneath it. He withdrew a comb from his pocket, and combed his hair straight back, relieved that the rain had dampened it enough to make it stay that way. 

It didn’t suit him like that. He looked sterner and older, almost like his father in the one photograph his mother had.

But most importantly, he didn’t look like Steve Rogers anymore. 

When the train came to a halt, one man emerged from the train, followed by the other. 

The tail walked briskly, with a clear direction. He hadn’t noticed that he was being followed, and that suited Steve down to the ground. He could keep pace with the smaller man easily, and kept his head down, but his eyes up, and watchful. 

If they thought that setting a spy on him was going to be useful, they were right.

It just wouldn’t be useful for them.


	20. Leverage

“And what exactly is this?”

Peggy folded her hands in front of her. “Drawings.”

Phillips raised his eyebrows, looking across the desk at her and Steve. “I can see that, Agent,” he said. “I didn’t get this job on good looks alone. Care to elaborate, Rogers? Why do I need to see your latest art project?”

“Leverage, sir.”

Phillips leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “Leverage? Who for?”

Steve stepped forward, bracing one hand on the desk, as the other fanned out the sheets of drawings. “In case your plan, and Stark’s, goes wrong,” he said. “These are the people who are watching him. They’re watching us too. You have contacts. You can find out who they are and make sure they don’t cause any problems.”

Peggy couldn’t help smothering a smile at the look of astonishment on Phillips’ face.

“And how in the hell did you come across these people?” he said, sitting up and pulling to the drawings closer to him, spreading them across the desk. There were half a dozen studies, some detailed, some quick sketches. 

Steve shrugged. “I followed one of them,” he said, “when he tried to follow me. I was better at it.”

Phillips didn’t even look Peggy’s way, but he pointed a finger at her. “If the words ‘I told you so’ are lining themselves up to come out your mouth, Agent, I’d think again.”

Peggy sat down demurely on the chair in front of the desk, hands in her lap. “I can’t imagine what you mean, Colonel,” she said. “I only told Steve what had been going on. We had no idea he would be followed.”

Phillips snorted, studying the drawings. “Sure, you didn’t.” He glanced at Steve. “You didn’t happen to see where these good people came and went from?”

Peggy had to look down at her hands, and bite the inside of her lip to keep from smiling, as Steve held out a folded piece of paper. 

“That’s the address,” he said nonchalantly. “It looks like it’s some kind of printing house, and it has a few working presses, but that could be a front, and I don’t know why any printers would be interested in Stark.”

Phillips plucked the paper from his hand. “I don’t even want to know how you know that,” he said, unfolding the paper and examining it. He was silent for a moment, then looked up at Steve. “You did good, son.”

Peggy didn’t have to look at Steve to know he had pulled to attention.

It was a mission.

That was what he’d been lacking.

Even when they were trying to find out what happened to Barnes, he was bogged down by grief and guilt. 

However, if he turned in the direction of someone who might be a direct threat and was given a target to focus on, he could put the grief to one side. The fire was back in his eyes, the desire to thwart the people who would hurt him and his.

“I don’t know how much use it’ll be,” he said.

“I’m sure I’ll find something I can do with it,” Phillips said. “You said all these people were watching us?”

Steve nodded, reaching across the desk and tapping a picture of a pretty woman. “This was the woman Stark was with in the hotel,” he said. “I don’t know if she’s any part of it, but there was something about her. I don’t know if Stark knows.”

“Could be better that he doesn’t,” Phillips observed. “He can play dumb pretty well, but sometimes, not playing is the best way to be.”

Steve hesitated, then said, “With all due respect, sir, I think we need to trust each other in this.” The reproof in his voice wasn’t just for Phillips. “No one should be kept in the dark, not when there’s so much at stake.” 

Phillips glanced back at Peggy. “How much does he know?”

Peggy met his eyes defiantly. “Everything I know, he knows,” she said, fingering her wedding band. “Man and wife, Colonel. We share everything.”

Phillips shook his head with a sigh. “And people wonder why I share my bed with a Colt and no one else,” he said. “Captain, there’ll come a day when you’ll wish you just had the comfort of a good revolver under your pillow. So much easier than sharing.”

To Peggy’s surprise, Steve stepped back alongside her chair, and his fingertips brushed her shoulder. He wasn’t one for displaying their relationship in public, and she didn’t mind in the least, but when he did, it warmed her down to her toes. 

“To be honest, sir,” he said, “I think my wife and her beretta are much more comforting.”

She lifted her hand, crooking her fingers around his. “Steve, you’ll make the Colonel blush.”

Phillips chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m not a fifteen year old girl, Carter,” he said. “I was there when you gave that poor son of a bitch his first kiss. You think a little bit of romance is going to make me get all flustered?”

Peggy looked up at Steve with a smile. His features were less drawn, and he looked down at her, as he’d looked at her so many years ago, on the back of that car, as they raced after Schmidt and his plane.

“I think we’d better leave before it’s more than just romance,” he said, his fingers threading through hers. 

Peggy’s heart felt like it had skipped a beat.

For all that they spent their nights together, he hadn’t looked at her like that in weeks. There was too much happening, too much to distract them both, and drive him half-mad with grief and guilt. 

Now, though, he had a mission.

He had tracked agents, and found information they didn’t have before, and he was coming alive before her eyes. He was still worn and tired, but there was a brightness, a fire, about him that she’d thought was fading.

Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and she let him draw her up. 

“Yes,” she said. “We ought to go.”

Behind them, she heard Phillips groan. “God help me.”

Steve’s fingers were warm around hers, and she couldn’t help smiling, as they hurried away through the bunker and back out into daylight. The afternoon was chilly and wet, and Steve raised a hand, hailing a cab.

Almost as soon as they were in, she pressed up to him and claimed a kiss. 

“I see you’re feeling better, Captain,” she said, eyes shining. 

He lifted his hand to touch her cheek. “We’re on my ground now,” he said. He pressed his brow gently to hers. “Thank you.”

“For what?” she whispered, touching the back of his hand.

His eyes met hers. “Waiting for me,” he said. “It’s taken me a while to get back to you.”

She tilted her head enough to brush her lips over his. “You’ll find I have a great deal of patience, Captain,” she murmured. Her eyes were half-closed and she tilted her head into his touch as he curled his fingers, his knuckles brushing her cheekbone. “And some people are more than worth the wait.”

The cabbie cleared his throat loudly, and Peggy drew back, smiling.

“It seems I’ll have to wait a little longer.”

Steve caught her hand in his, lifting it to his lips. “Not too long,” he said.

He was right about that.

It took less than fifteen minutes for them to reach the hotel, and only another two minutes to ascend the staircase and rush into their suite. She was only grateful he had wits enough to put the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door handle, before they locked the door for the evening.


	21. Infiltration

The steam was billowing out from the shower.

It was one of the luxuries of being rich: affording a hotel where a private shower was installed in every suite you cared to use. 

Howard, however, wasn’t occupying it.

He had a small machine with a direct feed into the camera that was installed in his room, and he was watching the woman poking around. When he’d left her in the bed, she was pretending to sleep, and as soon as he turned the shower on, she scrambled up.

Cassandra - the name she gave at least - was a pretty girl, so flirting shamelessly with her wasn’t exactly a hardship. Rogers had his suspicions about her, and Phillips said that if Rogers called it, it was probably a good call, so Howard was meant to interact with her. 

He’d never expected to be the honey trap for a female spy.

When she had leaned closer and suggested they go up to his room, he’d figured why the hell not. It had been a long while since any pretty girl was so eager. She had him up against the door and half-dressed in minutes.

It wasn’t exactly how he’d seen himself serving his country, having acrobatic sex with a stunning blonde until they were both collapsing exhausted in the bed. She’d kissed him and nestled against him, before falling asleep, or so she feigned. 

When he eased himself out from under her arm, retreating to the bathroom, he half-hoped the Cap was wrong about her, but everything he was watching on the camera said Rogers was right on the money. 

She was good as well, careful. She left everything exactly where he’d left it. 

Nothing went untouched: his files on the table, the contents of his briefcase, even the pockets of his coat. She even went so far as to tamper with his telephone. It was a relief that anything of value or real use was safely locked in the safe, out of her reach.

Occasionally, she looked towards the bathroom door, and when she did, he reached behind him to wave a hand under the water, changing the texture of the sound. 

When that ceased to be enough, he hastily shoved the viewer into the laundry hamper, shed his bathrobe and jumped into the shower. The water was searingly hot, and he quickly lathered up the soap, rubbing over himself a second before she opened the door and slipped into the bathroom behind him.

“You want some company?”

He turned, grinning like he meant it. “What kind of gentleman would turn down an offer like that?” he said, holding out a hand to her.

She didn’t leave his room until the next morning, after promising they would see each other again.

He went through the footage again, watching everything she went through.

She wasn’t looking for anything in particular, that much was obvious. His files were glanced through, but not copied, stolen, or photographed. She spent more time on his telephone and with his suit. 

A cursory check found a bug planted in the receiver of the telephone, and a small metal device hidden in the inside of his coat pocket, probably some kind of tracker. He left both of them where they were. 

All the better to play the womanizing scientist that he was famous for in public. 

That led to a whole other set of problems.

Phillips had prepared him for the fact they would be watching him, and probably try to listen to him too. It was one thing to be followed himself, but the bunker where Rogers and Carter were holed up, trusting him to bring them intel, couldn’t be compromised.

He considered his options, then smiled slightly.

Two hours later, he arrived for breakfast at the Ritz.

That place advertised discretion and he was shown to a private table, out of the public view, where Phillips was waiting for him. The Colonel took one look at him and snorted.

“What the hell are you meant to be?”

Stark looked down at the tweed suit he was wearing, then back up. “I sent out a distraction in my place,” he said. “Turns out our friends have some technology at their disposal. A tracker among other things. I sent it out for a walk.”

“Which is why you’re dressed like a parson, huh? Who’s the puppet?”

Howard sat down at the table and removed the broad hat. “Montgomery was within an hour of the hotel,” he said. “I used the old radio frequency to get in touch. We were lucky he was able to come.” He looked down at the suit with distaste. “I’d swear he dressed like this just so he could laugh in my face when I had to wear it.”

Phillips nodded. “How long do we have?”

“I told him to go and order a few new suits for me,” Howard replied. “Ones that don’t come with trackers. Could take an hour or two.”

“Long enough,” Phillips agreed. “Details. Now.”

Howard filled him in with as much detail as he could, elaborating when Phillips asked, and glossing over the more intimate details. “I had a security feed hooked into the room as well,” he said, “so if they try and go in when I’m not there, I’ll see it.”

“Good thinking,” Phillips said, leaning back in his chair thoughtfully. “This is a good start. They’re doing ground work on you now. Want to know if you’d act on what you’re saying. You just keep doing what you’re doing.”

“Wriggle like a worm on a hook, you mean?”

Phillips shrugged. “I was more thinking watch your line and see what bites. You got to think of the big picture, son. We’re hunting them. They just don’t know it yet.” He studied Howard’s face. “You think you can keep playing your part?”

Howard spread his hands with his best smile. “Hey, it’s all I ever do,” he said. “Everyone knows good old Howie Stark went off the deep end after the war. They want convincing that I’m disillusioned by it all, that’s what they’ll get.”

Phillips didn’t crack a smile. “This isn’t a game, son. People could get killed.”

“I know.” Howard’s expression turned stone-cold. “I get that, believe me.” He shook his head, then rubbed at his eyes with forefinger and thumb. “Never thought I’d end up doing anything more than development. No one mentioned bombshell spies.”

“If that’s a problem…”

“I didn’t say that,” Howard said curtly. “If I’ve got to sleep my way to Stalin himself, you know I’d do it.”

Phillips was silent for a moment. “You know he’s forgiven you, Stark. You don’t need to prove anything.”

Howard looked down at his hands. “Will this get information we need?” he said, without looking up at Phillips. “Will it be useful? Could it get the Captain the answers he needs?”

“You know it could.”

“Then why are you asking?” Howard said, raising his eyes to Phillips. “Whatever we need to do, to get what he needs, we do it, okay? I play the sex-starved jerk, you play frustrated, they think they get technology, the Cap gets what he needs, and hey, I get laid once in a while.” He almost managed to smile convincingly. “Everyone wins.”

Phillips shook his head with a sigh. “What the hell did I do to end up with a team of self-sacrificing idiots?” he asked, getting up from the table. “Smart people, I was told. Not a bunch of kids who’d throw themselves on a grenade for a buddy.”

“He did.” Howard said. “Rogers. He died. What I’m doing? It’s nothing compared to that.” He tried to smile. “And it’s not like they sent someone who isn’t attractive.”

Phillips looked down at him, grave. “If you want to back out at any time,” he said, “we’ll get you out of there. You hear me? Get you back to the States and out of the way.”

Howard nodded. “If you say so.”

Phillips shook his head, and turned and walked away. He paused by the door. “Don’t get yourself killed, Stark. He’d be grateful if you got results, but he’d be more grateful if you didn’t die. The man’s sentimental about his friends.”

Howard lowered his eyes. “I know,” he said quietly. “I’ll do my best, sir.”

Phillips snorted. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, as he walked away. “As usual.”


	22. Liaison

If there was one thing Phillips hated, it was meeting up with politicians.

It was like trying to talk a dumb kid through defusing a bomb, and if you didn’t say just the right thing, the whole thing would blow up in your face. 

Information coming from them was just as bad, all ‘official secrets act’ and ‘non-British alien’, like he was some kind of man from Mars, instead of one of the goddamned men who had kept their country safe through the war.

Still, they wanted a reason he was still hanging around.

It wasn’t as if he could just claim he was on vacation, not when they’d taken over the base of SSR operations all over again, but at the same time, they couldn’t compromise the work that Stark was doing.

Sometimes, Phillips felt like a ring-master with a herd of cats, and other days, he felt like he was standing on a goddamned tightrope, trying like hell to keep his balance, with his people on one side, law enforcement on another, and Ruskies on the other. 

Still, it wasn’t like he hadn’t led Senators by the nose for years back home.

He was summoned - like he was some kind of lackey - into a grand old building. They even picked him up, right off the street, and on anyone but the British secret service, it might have been called abduction. It wasn’t MI6. They knew what was going on. It was someone higher up the chain, someone who wasn’t pleased that he was there.

He didn’t give a good god damn who it was, even when he was shown into a fancy office, all leather and polished wood and brass. The kind of place that smelled like old money.

An old man was sitting on the other side of a broad desk and rose as Phillips approached. He was dressed like a politician but he spoke like an English army officer. “Colonel Phillips, I presume.”

Phillips glanced around the room. The pick-up boys had already made themselves scarce, which was a start. They didn’t think he was a threat personally, so that was something. This was all about the words and picking them carefully.

“I am,” he said. “Who am I talking to?”

“That,” the man said, “is irrelevant.” He motioned to Phillips to sit down, then took his own seat behind the desk. “I suspect you know why you are here.”

Phillips folded his hands in his lap and tapped the balls of his thumbs together. “I think we’re both too old to make with the cloak and dagger,” he said. “You want to know why I’m hanging around your fair city, am I right?”

The man’s watery blue eyes gave nothing away. “As I recall, the Strategic Scientific Reserve were disbanded shortly after the war,” he said. “MI6 have made some noises that you are here purely on an informal basis. Nothing political, I am told.”

Phillips made a note to tell Carter that someone had been spilling the beans. “Something of the kind,” he agreed neutrally. “Looking into an old acquaintance. Someone who we lost touch with during the war. It’s easier to look when you’re in the right country.”

The man moved his hand, shifting a sheaf of papers on his desk. Phillips’ eyes flicked down, but nothing on the pages jumped out at him, all hand-written, and definitely not in English. He looked back up and found the pale eyes on him.

“And yet, your Mr Stark is not assisting you?”

Phillips lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “Stark’s been wrong in the head since the war,” he said. “Technical genius, but a little tetchy about the whole A-bomb affair. We had a… disagreement about our approach.”

“And yet, he still lingers.”

Phillips snorted. “Stubborn son of a gun said he won’t come back until I asked him to, and, well… that just isn’t gonna happen.” He smiled briefly. “If you got your boys to drag me all the way down here because Howard Stark is being a highly-strung diva, I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

“It seems he has taken up with a young lady.”

Phillips shrugged. “What he gets up to on his own time is his problem,” he said, watching the man’s face. “Unless it’s also your problem. This girl caught your eye?”

The old guy was pretty damn good. He didn’t show a flicker. “There are parties who may be interested,” he said.

Phillips scratched at his cheek with his fingertip. “Parties, huh? Anyone I know?”

The man gathered together his piles of paper. “Let us not beat around the bush, Colonel,” he said. “This woman is suspected to have communist leanings. The fact that she is associating with a known weapons manufacturer from the Unites States, one who has been showing signs of instability, is a cause for concern.”

“If she’s suspected, why haven’t you picked her up, instead of some old-timer like me?”

Grey eyebrows rose. “You know the answer to that question, Colonel Phillips.”

“Sure I do. You caught the end of the string,” he said. “You want to see where it leads.”

“Quite so.” The papers were stacked and straightened. “It would better for all concerned if Stark ceased to be a… distraction.”

Phillips leaned back in the high-backed chair, gazing at him. “You think I can get that through his thick skull? We don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

“I’m sure we can make it worth your while.”

Now that was the kind of negotiation Phillips liked to see. “You don’t know what I’m looking for.”

“We know the man in question has ties to Russia.”

MI6 had been blabbing a hell of a lot. “Perhaps.”

“We may be willing to grant you access to intelligence that crosses our desks.”

“I got intelligence coming out the wazoo,” he replied dryly. “What makes yours so special?”

A single sheet slid across the desk towards him.

Howard picked it up. 

Most of the text was the Russian scribbles, with notes down the side in English. 

One name stood out.

General Vasily Karpov.

He raised his eyes to the man on the other side of the desk.

“Where did you get this?”

The man’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That need not concern you, Colonel,” he said. “Suffice to say that I have access to more of the same, should you choose to cooperate.”

Phillips set the paper back down on the desk, sliding it back towards the man. “If you know we’re looking for Karpov, you know it’s not political.”

“But it could become so,” the man said mildly. “Really, Colonel, did you honestly think that the miraculous reappearance of Captain America would go unnoticed? There are those of us who are still capable of using our eyes.”

Phillips met his eyes. “What reappearance? All I see is some young buck called Steve Rogers. Captain America died in the ice.”

The man’s mouth turned up beneath his moustache. “So no intentions of dashing in to save the day? Freedom and independence for the Koreans? Stars and stripes and all that tosh?”

“We got no plans of the kind,” Phillips said. “Like I said, we’re just looking for someone we ran into during the war. Nothing political.”

The old man ran his knuckle beneath his chin. “I would recommend, then,” he said, “that you ensure you get Stark to part company with the young lady. Not at once, of course. He seems rather taken with her, but soon. A fortnight, perhaps. Maybe three weeks.”

“And I get what, exactly? A bit of paper with Russian gibberish and a name that you could have got from MI6?”

The man rose and went to a polished cabinet. He withdrew a folder and gazed at the cover, then turned back to Phillips. “Consider this a gesture of good faith, Colonel,” he said, returning to the desk and sitting down. “The intelligence contained in this file is not well-known within the intelligence community. You may find it… useful.”

Phillips took the folder from him, opening it and scanning the documents. He looked back across the desk. “How the hell did you get this?”

The old man smiled slightly. “A gentleman’s prerogative is to protect his sources,” he said. “Will that suffice to encourage you?”

Phillips looked back down at the documents: Russian records with the English translation pinned to the opposite page. If the details in the file title were to be believed, someone bedded down in Moscow was getting the information out, and then some.

He snapped the file shut. “I do believe it will, sir,” he said, saluting briskly. “Anything else on Karpov you have?”

“Will reach you once oil has been poured on troubled waters,” the man said. “Take care of Stark. We will contact you when it’s done.”


	23. Tools

Waiting was always the worst part.

Colonel Phillips assured him that Stark's plan was coming together. 

Meanwhile, Phillips had received general intel for them, but none of it gave any real clue as to where Karpov might be. He was out of their reach, and none of their connections could find anything new. 

Steve set down the latest file and rubbed his eyes with one hand.

"I'm sure this is useful, but it feels like it isn't," he said.

Phillips was studying another file. "It's always smart to know what your enemies are up to," he said. 

"I know," Steve agreed, "but this all seems so vague." He flipped the file open. "Hit squads of specialised soldiers? Don't all armies have those?"

"The difference," Phillips said, turning a page in his file, "is whether they have someone like Captain America or something like the SAS." He glanced over at Steve. "Last we heard, the NKVD have an army of trigger-happy commandoes who don't exactly go for subtle. This says that they’re starting something new, and we need to know that."

“Maybe they’re learning subtle,” Steve agreed, leaning back in the chair. “I mean, they’ve got spies over here, right under MI6’s nose. Maybe it’ll be like the man who killed Erskine. The Hydra agent.”

He could still remember it. The sound of the explosion and the echoing gunshot. Everything else was a blur around him, too much to take in with his suddenly charged senses. He could taste the smoke, and hear the faint gasp as the bullet tore into Erskine’s chest. 

A lot of what followed wasn’t clear, but he remembered Erskine smiling faintly at him before his eyes fell closed for the last time. Then there had been shouting and more gunshots, and he remembered running, and breathing as he never had before. 

It was like waking up for the first time, after that agent died - gagging - at his feet.

When he woke from the ice, it was a similar feeling: disorientation and complete loss of the control he’d had.

“We’re ahead of the curve this time, Rogers,” Phillips said. “Stark’s made some contacts. He got us information we didn’t expect, and we have all this.” He held up a piece of paper. “We know what’s going on behind their lines now, and this is their next big thing.”

“Call me pessimistic,” Steve argued, “but if they’re not advertising these new soldiers, I think we should be careful. I’ve been reading up on the Soviets. If they want to scare people, they tell everyone exactly what they’re doing, but they haven’t announced these soldiers to anyone. Why would they keep it a secret it they wanted to scare people?”

Phillips snorted. “Son, MI6 was looking for a ‘death ray’ back in the thirties, and no one knew about it until later. Some people don’t oversell themselves, when they know all they have a cart full of bullshit.” He put down his folder, looking across the desk at Steve, lines furrowing his brow. “You think there could be something to it?”

Steve leaned forward, looking at the open document in front of him. The more he read it, the harder it was to grasp what he was missing. There was something about it, something that was tugging at him, and he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just keep on remembering that’s what Schmidt was trying so hard to do, when he became the Red Skull. He was trying to re-create it later. That’s why he sent that agent to steal it. That was what he wanted Zola to work on.” He shook his head, looking up at Phillips. “Maybe that’s what Karpov and his men were looking for.”

“And maybe that’s why they took Barnes,” Phillips said, frowning. 

“If Zola’s serum was anywhere close to working, even enough to save him when he fell, then they…” Steve trailed off helplessly. 

In the days that followed Erskine’s murder, he’d been turned into a guinea pig: they’d sat him down and drained him of as much blood as they could without risking his health, all to find the key to making more men like him. 

If people who were his allies did that to him, what would their enemies have done to Bucky?

He felt sick thinking about it, and rose, turning away from Phillips. He walked across the room and back again, his hands curling and uncurling by his sides. God, he wanted to find the son of a bitch who took his friend and beat the hell out of him.

“Zola said the serum was only in the early stages,” Phillips said. 

“So?” Steve said, turning back to face him. “He didn’t tell you that until you sent people to persuade him to talk. What else didn’t he tell us? How far was it in development? What did it do? What could that mean, if the Russians have been…” He took a steadying breath, trying not to remember that room, that cell, where Bucky was strapped down, hurt, twisted up, broken. He could feel his nails sinking into his palms, but the pain helped, an anchor, something to stop him from hitting someone. “If they extracted it, who’s to say they couldn’t use it on other people? We might not, but they would. Look at what they’ve been doing to their own people. Why would they care what affect it had?”

“If they had managed to create someone like you,” Phillips said calmly, “I’m pretty damned sure we would know about it.”

Steve ran a hand over his eyes. His fingers were trembling again, he noticed.

“We need Zola to tell us everything,” he said. “We need to know what kind of effects it had. If they have a starting point, we need to know what it is. We need to know what could be coming our way.”

Phillips was watching him. “The only person I’d trust with that information is Stark,” he said bluntly, “and he’s working here, at least for another few weeks.”

Steve nodded unhappily. He sat back down in the seat, lacing his hands between his spread knees, his elbows resting on his thighs. He stared at the floor for a long while, then looked back up at Phillips. 

“Get Zola out of his cage,” he said. “Get him working on in the lab, to show us what he had been developing. When Stark has some time, he can go over and read through the notes. See if he can make some kind of sense of it. Work out what that son of a bitch did to Bucky. See how much it worked.”

“It might be nothing,” Phillips said.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed. “But it might be something to dim the lights in Moscow.”

He could see the point hit home.

Phillips wasn’t dumb. Far from it. But he took convincing when it came to big risks, especially with such an uncertain result. Steve knew that from the first time they met. Phillips was the person he’d had to convince to be part of the experiment. He’d seen the results, and now, he trusted Steve enough to believe him.

“Worst comes to worst,” Phillips finally said, “if we let him into the lab again, we may get a fix on Erskine’s serum.” His mouth quirked in that lined smile. “Couldn’t hurt to have a new Cap or two in the world today.”

Steve looked down at his hands again. 

One had done enough damage.

“He needs to be under guard, twenty-four seven,” he said quietly. “I don’t want anymore people hurt because of him.”

“I’ll put my best people on it,” Phillips agreed. “We’ll get him out of the pen and back to Lehigh. There’s a research bunker there. That’ll be secure enough to hold him, and out of the way of anyone who might go looking.”

“It has to be discreet,” Steve said, rubbing his hands together. It was cold in the bunker, colder than he’d realised, and his hands were aching. “Peggy - Agent Carter said there was some publicity when he was locked up last month.”

“Mm. Especially since he’d been playing ball for so long,” Phillips said. “People asked questions we didn’t want to be answering.” He rubbed the hollow of his cheek with the ball of his thumb. “I’ll make some calls. See if we can’t arrange a transfer to another jail that goes awry. Wouldn’t be the first person who never reached their destination.”

Steve rose from his seat. “Thank you, sir.” He jerked his head towards the door. “I think I’ll head back, if you don’t need me.”

Phillips waved him away. “Not much more we can do for now, son,” he said. “Take a few days. You haven’t had a vacation in years, have you?”

Steve closed his right hand over his left, rubbing them slowly together. “I think Agent Carter might like that,” he said. 

Phillips looked at him in wry amusement. “She’s your wife, Rogers,” he said. “You can call her by her name.”

“I know, sir,” Steve said. “Thank you, sir.”

He stepped out the office and closed the door behind him, then looked down at his hands. They never looked cold, but even with the slightest drop in temperature, they felt stiff. That stiffness felt like it could spread, and the thought of that terrified him. 

He made his way to the small kitchen and turned on the hot faucet, waiting until the water was steaming, then thrust his hands under it. 

If he kept the cold at bay, then maybe the nightmares would be kept at bay too. 

At least the ones about the ice.


	24. Respite

Yorkshire was thick with snow.

Peggy looked out over the fields. Her hands were wrapped around a teacup, a breach of all manner of her mother’s protocol, but presently, her mother had much more to make a fuss about: a son-in-law brought home for Christmas.

Phillips had all but ordered them to take a few days, while Howard was off in France, on some kind of business. 

For want of anything necessary to do, Peggy offered Steve the chance to meet her family. The fact she had a family at all seemed to astonish him, but then she had never really seen a need to bring them up.

To their credit, her parents managed to hide their surprise remarkably well, when she and Steve appeared on their doorstep.

Mother always was a practical sort, and father…

Well, she was quite sure Steve was getting whatever warnings a septuagenarian veteran of the first World War and former squaddie could muster. Her father’s vernacular could become quite colourful at times. 

She turned at approaching footsteps, and smiled tiredly at her mother.

“Dare I ask what catastrophe you are evading to hide here?”

Peggy set her teacup back on her palm, holding the handle properly. “We were ordered to take a few days leave,” she said. “The problems that we’re working on are taking some time, and the Colonel felt Steve needed to be elsewhere.”

Her mother nodded gravely.

Mary Carter knew all to well about the trials that the secret service could put on one’s life. 

As she told it, her father had forbidden her from entering MI6 on account of ‘young women are a distraction a working man does not need’. To spite him, she ended up working as a voluntary nurse on the front in France, and probably did more than any of her uncles through the course of the war.

And like Peggy, she met a military man, someone older than she was, and so many tiers below her in social circles that she was very nearly disowned by her family when she introduced them to Tom Carter, late of Yorkshire. 

Accordingly, it took a great deal to surprise her. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring him to visit sooner,” she said. “It’s been an awful time.”

“Darling,” her mother said fondly, “given where he has spent the past few years, I honestly did not imagine you would be able to bring him home at all.”

Peggy looked in the direction of the parlour. Her parents’ house was nowhere near as grand as the one she had grown up in, in Chelsea, but with her father’s health being what it was, a smaller house in his old hometown, where he could grow old quietly suited him better.

“You don’t suppose father will actually shoot him?”

Her mother laughed. “You brought home an American, my dear girl,” she said. “I don’t imagine a gun would scare him too much.”

Peggy had to smile at that. “How has he been lately?”

For a moment, her mother’s elegant demeanour seemed to crack. “The senility is growing worse, I’m afraid,” she admitted. “His father was the same.”

Peggy reached out and clasped her mother’s hand. “I wish I could help, somehow.”

Her mother gave her fingers a light squeeze. “Forgive me if I’m mistaken,” she said, “but I believe you have a veteran of your own to take care of, hm?”

Peggy had to look away. “He has been quite tired.”

Her mother’s fingertips were at her chin, turning her face back. “I know the signs, darling,” her mother said gently. “As much as you want to take care of him, you must take care of yourself too, you know.”

“I’m quite well, mummy. Honestly.”

“Your father used to say that.” Her mother sighed. “You’re as bull-headed as he is, do you know that, Margaret?”

Peggy’s lips trembled when she tried to smile. Of all the people she considered close, only her mother could ever really tell when there was anything wrong. “He would be happy to hear you say that.”

“Oh, I’m well aware, dear.” Her mother took her arm, leading her over to the couch. “Now, tell me what the matter is.”

Her mother, she knew, would not dismiss her or Steve’s behaviour. After all, Peggy’s father had suffered shell-shock for many years after the first war, and if anyone could advise Peggy how to proceed with Steve, she knew it was her mother.

They were still talking quietly when Steve finally emerged from the parlour with her father.

Peggy rose at once, hurrying to her father’s side. “Thank you for leaving him in one piece,” she said, slipping her arm through his. “I quite like him that way.”

Her father’s dark eyes glinted under his grey brows. “He said your right hook got his attention,” he said proudly. “Glad I taught you that now.”

Peggy looked up at Steve, who shrugged.

“You knocked the jerk on his back,” he said. “What’s not to love?”

Peggy felt her mother’s hand on her shoulder. “You know,” she said, “I think we rather have a type.”

“We were either both complimented or insulted,” her father said to Steve, chuckling. 

Steve looked at her father, and when he smiled, it was warm and real. “I’ll take it as a compliment, sir.”

And that was that.

In the course of a single conversation, Steve was an honorary part of the family. 

He was even given the seat at the head of the table, though he seemed unaware that this was a privilege afforded to only to fortunate few. Or uncle John, who would bodily pick up anyone who dared to take his seat.

That night, he finally reached the guest room with two large mugs of warm milk in his hands.

“Father?”

“He was kind of insistent,” Steve admitted with a rueful smile, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. 

Peggy was sitting in the middle of the patchwork quilt on the bed. She reached out and took one of the mugs, smiling. “He likes to make a fuss,” she said. “He pretends he doesn’t, but he can’t help himself.”

“He just wants to make sure you’re taken care of.”

Peggy rolled her eyes fondly. “He taught me how to break a man’s nose three different ways before I was ten,” she said.

“You know that isn’t what he meant.”

She looked down at the milk, then took a delicate sip. It was just right, with a trace of honey to sweeten it. “I know,” she said.

Steve hesitated, then touched her knee gently. “I know this has to be hard on you too.”

She lowered one hand from the mug to cover his. “It’s not easy for either of us,” she said, “but that’s why we have to work together.” She squeezed his fingers. “Mother and father taught me how important that was.”

He glanced towards the door. “Yeah,” he said, lowering his voice. “Did she really almost get kicked out of her own family?”

Peggy tried to keep from smiling. “Until father stormed in and gave her father a piece of his mind.”

“That was enough?”

“Oh no!” She laughed. “They had a punch-up in my grandfather’s offices. Father made quite an impression. Grandfather may not have liked him an awful lot, but he could appreciate a man who would fight for the right to be accepted.”

“And here I was, thinking you were the rebellious one of the family,” he said with that small half-smile that was only ever for her.

She set down the mug on the bedside table, and lifted her hand to his cheek. “I think you’ll find that I’m quite boring by comparison.”

He followed her lead, setting aside his mug. “I find that very hard to believe,” he said, as she drew him down onto the bed with her.


	25. Conspiracy

If anyone was asked, they would say Howard Stark was in France. 

Some would say it was on business. 

Some would say it was for pleasure. 

The general consensus, though, was that he was definitely in France over the winter period. The tracking beacon in his coat would tell people that. Mr and Mrs Rogers would tell people that. Everyone except Phillips would tell people that.

Instead, he was on a private jet, chartered by Phillips through a dummy corporation, flying back to the USA.

Phillips couldn’t give him all the details, or wouldn’t, about why he had to pull back.

As far as he knew, he’d been doing okay. 

Information had been slipping through his fingers as if by accident, while he drank like a sinkhole and grumbled about America’s attitude. His girl, in turn, showed some of her cards, which was how Phillips knew the Russians had suspicions that Captain America wasn’t as dead as the newsreels said. 

It wasn’t exactly a give-and-take arrangement.

She let slip by accident, but he let slip on purpose.

Everything he’d given them was nothing compared to what they’d given him.

Phillips had other files, files about new elite soldiers, which fitted with some of the information that had come Howard’s way. According to Howard’s girl, it wasn’t a squad of elite soldiers. They didn’t need that many. It was one specialist, highly-trained, modelled on Captain America.

That was enough to get Phillips on edge.

Howard was told to sever ties and say he was going off on a business trip. His winter coat with its shiny tracker was sent off on vacation to Paris with Montgomery, who dyed his hair and trimmed his moustache for the occasion. 

If they stood side by side, decked out in identical scarves and hats against the winter chill, Howard was pretty sure even his own mother wouldn’t be able to tell which was the real Howard.

Montgomery was enjoying himself a bit too much, but Howard couldn’t blame him.

It wasn’t often that you were sent on an all-expenses paid trip to Paris, to stay in a top hotel and eat all the caviar money could buy. Just to be on the safe side, Phillips got in touch with some colleagues over there to stage business meetings, just in case there were eyes there too. 

Howard tried to sleep on the plane, but he knew what lay ahead of him.

If the Russians were making super soldiers, there was every chance the base for their serum came from Barnes. If it came from Barnes, then there was only one source, and that source was currently working in the SHIELD labs again.

Zola.

The SHIELD team were pressing him to recreate whatever he had done to Barnes, only this time without strapping down an American prisoner of war and torturing him for months. If they could see where he had ended up, if they were lucky, they would have a start point for the experiments the Russians were doing. 

From what Phillips said, busting Zola out of confinement hadn’t gone as smoothly as they hoped. Someone from the press got wind of it, and the story was plastered all over the front pages of the news sheets. 

A lot of it was speculation, because the press wrote what they wanted, but the fact was that the whole damned country knew Zola was free, and if the average Joe on the streets of New York knew, then the people holed up in Moscow definitely knew.

Howard’s team back at Lehigh had no idea what to make of the man’s data and Zola wasn’t exactly in the mood to be cooperative.

Phillips insisted he hadn’t been tortured, but then the Colonel was measuring it against how Barnes had been treated back in 43. Howard didn’t want to know, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask, not when Phillips got that steely look in his eye.

Howard rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window.

He’d been on the move for nearly twenty-four straight hours. It was coming up on morning already, and he could see the first glimpse of the eastern seaboard. 

If he got his timing right, it would be about nine o’clock when they landed at the private airfield outside of Philadelphia. From there, he had a car waiting to take him to Lehigh, to see what he could make of Zola’s work with the man on hand to help him.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to rest.

It didn’t work so well, and he was yawning as he emerged into the crisp air, his breath misting in curls from his lips. There was a layer of ice covering pretty much everything, and he pulled his coat tighter around him.

“Mr Stark?”

At least it was a familiar, trusted face.

“Duggan?”

The big man grinned down at him, offering a gloved hand for him to shake. “Phillips said you’d need someone who wouldn’t go blabbing to the Ruskies,” he said. “Figured I was the right man for the job.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong,” Howard agreed. He shivered. “It’s as cold as an Eskimo’s ass out here. You’ve got a car waiting? Please tell me it’s heated.”

“Sure is,” Duggan said, leading the way. “It’s one of yours.”

Howard made a note to give Phillips a piece of his mind about spending all his money for him, while he had to freeze his ass off. The old man would probably laugh in his face.

The ride out to Lehigh wasn’t bad, and in the warmth of the car, Howard halfway napped, his coat collar pulled up around his ears. Duggan was talking at him, but Duggan would talk at anyone with ears, and Howard just grunted from time to time to feign interest.

If they didn’t have a pot of strong, black coffee and fresh pastries for him when he got to the lab, he would be having words.

The base was quiet when they arrived.

That wasn’t unexpected.

Even scientists had family to visit over Christmas, and only a dozen were meant to be on hand, supervising and working with Zola. His guards would be there as well. Compared to the usual hive of activity, the place seemed deserted, which suited Howard - and Phillips’ plans - down to the ground.

There were a few tracks in the snow, footprints walking between the main SHIELD offices, and the building that housed their labs. 

They’d converted one of the old storage depots into a massive, brightly-lit laboratory. It had been an expensive project, but worth it for some of the developments in technology they had produced in a few short years.

Duggan was frowning at something on the ground. “Do you have soldiers here?”

Howard, tramping towards the lab building already, turned. “Sometimes. Why?”

Duggan pointed at some of the tracks. “Those are standard military issue bootprints,” he said. “One set.”

According to Phillips’ files, the soldiers who still sometimes did manoeuvres out of Lehigh weren’t expected back at the base until mid-January, but that didn’t meant anything. Boots were boots and it was damned cold.

“Could be one of Zola’s guards,” he said with a shrug. “Maybe they’re ex-military and kept their boots.”

Duggan nodded, looking around warily. “Might have a look around, just in case,” he said, unbuttoning his coat. Howard could see the glint of metal beneath it.

“You do that,” he said. “I’ll be inside the building, where it’s warm.”

Duggan stalked off and Stark shivered, the wind whirling around him. It was a bright day and the sun was high, but that just meant it was colder when the wind bit. He tramped through the snow towards the laboratory, then paused, frowning.

The door was ajar, swinging slightly in the wind.

He put his hand to it, pushing it inwards.

The secondary doors were still closed, and he peeled off his gloves as he approached them. It was warm enough, and if the guards were there, leaving the main doors open wasn’t exactly a major crime. 

The place was secure, and even if Zola did escape, where was he meant to go, in the middle of winter in the middle nowhere in the middle of New Jersey?

He typed in his keycode and pressed his hand to the ID panel. It lit up and the secondary doors clicked open. He pushed one of them inwards and walked down the staircase that led into the labs. His feet had barely touched the main floor, when he looked up from unbuttoning his coat, and stopped dead. 

The machines whirred. The lights glowed. The data strips were printing.

And the techs and scientists lay dead on the floor, crumpled where they’d fallen.

He stumbled back a step, staring around.

Bodies, all around, mouths open, eyes glazed.

One of them caught his eye.

Zola.

His face swollen, fingers curled at his throat, as if he was choking, eyes wide and staring.

And a man.

A man in army uniform, crouched over him, one arm resting on his upraised knee.

Howard felt dizzy. His head was spinning, and his legs were shaking under him. He stumbled back a step and another. The clatter of his shoes on the metal of the staircase made the uniformed man turn sharply, rising. He was wearing a mask. A mask? Why?

And then Howard understood.

Gas.

He groped for the rail of the staircase, but his legs could barely hold him as he dragged himself up one step, then another. Legs folded, knees cracking on steps. Vision going hazy. Blurred. Out of focus. 

He could hear footsteps. They echoed. In his head, they echoed.

A hand was on his shoulder. Hard. He was pulled onto his back.

Man in mask.

Over him.

Staring at him.

A fingertip on his lips. Cold. Metal.

Hush.


	26. Coincidence

Stark was still unconscious.

Three days since the accident at the SHIELD laboratories, and the man was still unconscious. 

When word reached him, Phillips had called Rogers and Carter back from the north, and together, they had flown back to the US. 

Duggan contacted him through all the secure channels and told him what had happened. All the ballistics said a gas canister had ruptured, leaking toxic gas into the labs. Fourteen people were dead. Stark was on the brink.

It wasn't something that could be easily covered up.

The press didn't know all the details, which was a small mercy.

There were just reports of a tragic accident at a research facility in New Jersey. They didn't know Stark was involved or present. 

Rogers wasn't happy.

The man didn't deal well with loss. Stark was one of his men. He wasn’t exactly taking it well, especially not with such suspicious circumstances surrounding the so-called accident.

Phillips was a suspicious son of a bitch by nature. He didn't believe in luck or chance and he especially didn't believe in coincidence. 

Stark and his team were some of the most efficient people he'd ever met. They looked after their equipment to an obsessive degree. What were the chances that one of those pieces of equipment would break down within two weeks of Zola's return, killing the man and everyone around him? 

If it was a coincidence, he would dress up in feathers and call himself a goddamned turkey.

Duggan had suspicions too.

He wasn’t the brightest of Rogers’ Commandoes, but he wasn’t dumb, despite his nickname. He told Phillips he was sure he saw someone running from the base, too far away and too fast to catch them. That made him edgy, and thank God for that, because if he hadn’t got worried, he might not have reached Stark in time. 

The door of the lab had been locked, but Duggan said he could see Stark through the glass, sprawled unconscious on the stairs, and when no one would answer, he’d rammed the doors and half the front wall in with Stark’s armour-plated car.

Stark was the only one saved.

The rest were all going cold by the time he dragged them out.

He’d left the rest of them lying there in the snow and hauled ass to the nearest hospital, dodging the cops and breaking more than a few laws to save the man’s life.

They still didn’t know if it was enough.

The toxin was a gas they used in their experiments. Phillips couldn’t even pronounce the half of it, but it was some kind of nerve thing. Beat the hell out of him why they would have something like that in the lab, but they did and they died for it.

He made his way through the hospital up to the private room Stark was resting in.

Rogers was sitting by the man’s bedside again, staring at a book in his hands. Phillips would have put ready money that the man hadn’t turned a page in hours.

“Rogers.”

The Captain looked up. “Sir.”

“Any change?”

Rogers looked back towards the bed. “His breathing changed, but they don’t know what that means. They said they’ll check in on him every hour.”

The staff had no idea who they were dealing with.

No one would have recognised Stark as the grinning playboy, not when his features were still swollen, blood vessels burst under the skin. He looked like someone had hit him in the face with a sand-blaster, and every breath hissed through his parted lips. He was breathing on his own, which was a sign. Not a good one or bad one, but a sign of some kind.

Rogers closed up his book. “Any more news from the lab?”

“Nothing new,” Phillips admitted. “There was a ruptured canister. They said it was probably a pressure shortage.”

“Sure it was.” Rogers set the book down. “They wanted Zola out of the picture.”

Phillips couldn’t deny it was likely. 

Trouble was which side would make the move. There were plenty of people high up at home who wanted the guy taken care of, after what he did to their boys. But then there were the Russians who were building an army of toy soldiers based on Captain America, using his friend’s messed up body as a template.

“All we got is Duggan thinking he saw something or someone running away in the base,” he said. “He’s not even sure.”

Steve wasn’t looking at him. He was looking at Stark. He held out a hand to Phillips to silence him, and rose, approaching the bed. Stark wasn’t moving, but something had caught the Captain’s attention, and when his attention was caught, it was better to follow his lead.

He touched Stark’s shoulder lightly.

For a moment, nothing happened, then Stark recoiled as if he’d been struck, lashing out blindly with his arms, kicking with his legs. He was gasping, rasping breaths frothing his lips with blood, and screaming hoarsely.

Phillips went for the door, to call for help, but Rogers caught the man in his arms, holding him tightly to stop him hurting himself.

“Howard! Easy! Easy, buddy! It’s me! It’s Steve!”

Stark went rigid, shaking in his grip. “Rogers?” he rasped. His teeth and tongue were pink with blood. “You’re here?” Phillips, at the door, watched Stark’s fingers come up to tentatively touch the arm around his chest. The man broke into a racking coughing laugh. “Oh God. Thank god.” He was shaking like a leaf. “I thought it was him.”

“Him?” Phillips demanded.

Stark’s head turned towards him, but he wasn’t looking. His eyes were red, blood-shot, and so swollen it wasn’t a surprise to realise he could barely see. “Phillips?”

“Yeah,” Rogers murmured, holding the man with surprising gentleness. “We came as soon as we heard what happened. Do you remember? You went to the lab?”

Stark was leaning against him, and Phillips saw the way his fingers tightened on Rogers’ forearm, as if he needed a lifeline. “The lab. Yeah.” He shuddered. “Gas. There was gas. They were all dead. And a man. He was there.”

Rogers met Phillips’ eyes over Stark’s head. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “We thought there might be.” He patted his hand against Stark’s chest. “How about we get the doctor in to see you, huh? See if he can make you feel better.”

Stark’s fingers tightened on his arm. “He killed them,” he whispered. “The man.” He was swaying, and Rogers cradled the back of his head, laying him gently back against the pillows. “He had a mask. And his hand. His hand. It was metal.”

Phillips stepped aside to let the doctors into the room, but Rogers didn’t move.

“We’ll get you patched up, Howard,” he said, his hand still gently cradling Stark’s neck, “and you can tell us all about it okay? We’ll be here.”

Stark fumbled for his hand, clutching at it. “He was after Zola. I saw him. He was staring at him. He knew where to find him.”

“Yeah,” Rogers said, looking back at Phillips. “He did.” He clasped Stark’s hand briefly between his. “We’ll leave you with the doctors now, okay, Howard? We’ll come back when you’ve had some rest, and you can tell us everything.”

“Everything,” Stark echoed. His mouth was red and bloody. Lung damage from the gas, probably.

Rogers nodded to Phillips and they both left the room, closing the door behind them.

“Duggan was right.”

“You don’t sound surprised,” Phillips said.

“Neither do you.” Rogers ran a hand over his face. “Stark wasn’t meant to be there. No one was meant to see anything. This was meant to be an assassination staged to look like an accident.”

Phillips slowly rubbed a hand over his jaw. “We might have believed it too, if Duggan and Stark weren’t there.”

Rogers glanced back at the door. “You think he’ll be okay?”

“He’s alive,” Phillips said. “Let’s just work from that.”

Rogers nodded. “You know what else this means.”

Phillips nodded grimly. “Somewhere high up, there’s a leak.”


	27. Blame

All plans in Europe were on hold.

An attack on SHIELD was bad enough, but seeing Stark hooked up to a respirator was like a punch in the gut, especially knowing there was only one reason Stark and the lab had been attacked: because Zola was there.

Steve punched the punch bag again. He’d been hitting it for so long, his shoulders and back were starting to ache, but he couldn’t stop. 

He’d asked Phillips to get Zola back.

He’d made sure Stark would be the one to go through the data.

And because he’d asked and because Phillips had done as he said, more than a dozen people were dead and Howard Stark was spending hours a day linked up to oxygen tanks because his lungs were damaged. The man was conscious, but he was in a bad way.

He heard the door of the gym opening, but didn’t turn, his focus on the bag.

“Steve.”

Peggy.

He hadn’t seen her since Howard woke up and confirmed that there was an assassin. He’d just needed to hit something so badly that he took the car back to their hotel and gone straight down to the oversized gym in the basement. 

He straightened up, catching the bag against his palms. “Don’t tell me this isn’t on me,” he said quietly.

“Did you rupture the canister?” she asked, her voice tight and brittle. “Did you close the door and leave them to suffocate? Or perhaps you told the assassin where to find them.” Her steps were sharp as she approached. “Don’t you dare think this was your doing.”

He turned around. “Who got Zola out of his cage?” he demanded angrily. “Who was it that got him placed back with SHIELD?”

She grabbed him by the front of his sweat-soaked t-shirt, pulling his face down to her level. “I know who did those things,” she snarled at him. “I was there, and I have supported you every step of the way.” Her eyes were blazing. “If you have to blame yourself, then you’ll have to be generous, Captain. Phillips and I are accountable as well. Stark too. Every single one of us has played our part in this. Don’t you dare try and take the blame all on your shoulders.”

He stared at her, his own breathing uneven, and his shoulders sagged. “Peggy, you didn’t see him in there,” he said, letting his hands fall down by his sides. “And all of those people dead, just because I wanted to chase down a ghost.”

Her expression softened, and she lifted her hand to touch his cheek. “This is bigger than us, Steve,” she said gently. “You saw the reports Phillips had. They were talking about specialised soldiers. Stark’s data confirmed that there was only one. Did you hear what Stark said about the person who did this?”

Steve’s mouth felt dry. “A soldier.”

“Duggan said he was in US army uniform,” she said, “but I think that may have been his cover. How else could he get into the laboratory without any security clearance? Soldiers come and go at the base all the time.”

“And he was aiming for Zola.”

Peggy nodded. “So no matter what we were doing, or where Zola was,” she said, “I think there would have been a strategic accident. A prison or a lab, there would be collateral damage.” She lowered her hand. “Whatever he knew, whatever he had done to your friend, it was enough for them to consider him a threat. They didn’t want anyone else to know about it.”

Steve frowned. “Did they find any of it at the lab?” he asked. “Any of Zola’s latest research? Because I don’t remember hearing anyone mention it.”

Peggy drew back, frowning. “Duggan was too busy getting people out to notice,” she said, “and the ballistics team didn’t…” She grabbed his hand. “Phillips. If anyone knows, the Colonel will.”

Phillips was in the bar, his tie undone, a glass of scotch in his hand, when they found him.

“So you two geniuses figured a drink is good right about now too, huh?” he said, reluctantly turning to look at them. “D’you have any idea how far I’m gonna have to crawl up the ass of the Department of Defence about this? They called me in first thing tomorrow.”

“Colonel, we need to know if anything was taken from the laboratory.” Peggy set on the stool beside him. “We think we know who it may be, and if he took anything, it may confirm it.”

Phillips gave her a stony look. “We don’t know who the son of a bitch is, because we weren’t even meant to know he existed, let alone where the hell he came from. We also don’t know what the son of a bitch took, if he took anything, because Zola’s work was confined to those stiffs.” He drained the contents of the glass and slammed it down. “We don’t know jackshit.”

“We know he was Soviet,” Steve said. 

“Speculation,” Phillips snapped, rubbing his forehead. 

“I don’t think so,” Steve replied. “Sir, Stark’s sources and yours both said the same thing: the Russians were training up a specialist, some kind of soldier, based on Captain America.”

Phillips waved the bar-tender over again for a refill. “Don’t talk about yourself in the third person, son. Makes you seem touched in the head.”

Steve sighed. “Sir, what if they did it? What if this was the guy?”

Phillips’ glass stopped halfway to his mouth. He looked at Steve. “This guy wasn’t wearing tights,” he said.

“But it’d make sense,” Steve said. The more he said out loud, the more certain he felt. “They were working on undercover operatives. What if they just rolled that and their soldier into one? What if they sent him to take care of Zola because whatever they got from… when…” He tried not to think of Bucky and torture and blood and pain. “Sir, whatever Zola did, it must have been useful, because they didn’t want him doing it again.”

Phillips set his glass back down on the bar and ran his hand over his face. “Well, isn’t this just turning out to be a great week? First our labs get wrecked after a dozen of our top scientists get murdered, and now, we have a new Soviet assassin on the loose who may or may not be Captain Russia, and no one can tell us anything about him except that he has a metal hand?”

“Metal hand?” Peggy asked.

Phillips waved dismissively. “God knows,” he said. “Stark is so high on morphine right now, he could tell us it was made of cheese and we’d have no idea if he was right. Could be the guy just shoved a gun in his face. Could be we have a killer robot soldier thing. Could be he just robbed us of the breakthrough of the century. We don’t even know.”

Peggy drummed her fingers on the edge of the bar. “Colonel, under the data protocols of SHIELD, we should at least have records of the numbers of files that were accessible within the department,” she said. “Even if the most recent files were taken, their creation would still be registered in the main office.”

“Not if they were working off the books,” Phillips said abruptly. “We can check, but there’s no guarantee.”

Steve sat down on the vacant stool beside Peggy, feeling suddenly tired. “So what do we know?”

Phillips tilted his glass of whisky, looking down into it. “We know that our top secret facility isn’t so top secret anymore. We know we have enemies who are a step ahead of us. We know Stark saw something he wasn’t meant to see. We know someone got a damned good assassin into our most secure lab. We know that we won’t be finding out what the Ruskies baseline is for this assassin.” He looked at Steve, and for the first time, he looked his age. “Like I said, we know jack.”

Steve propped his arm on the bar, resting his brow against his fingertips. “We know we were getting close to something,” he said. “Whatever they’re doing, they wanted to make sure we didn’t find out about it. That’s something.”

Phillips snorted. “Yeah,” he said. “We know they’re up to something. That gets us a hell of a long way.” He straightened up, rubbing his eyes. “Shouldn’t’ve gone for the good stuff,” he grumbled. “Always brings out the cynic in me.” He pushed off the stool and picked up his abandoned tie. “I got a promise of intel, and when that comes in, you kids’ll know. Right now, I’m going to bed.”

Steve watched him go. “He’s not wrong,” he said.

“No,” Peggy agreed, laying her hand on his knee, “but he’s not quite right either. We know more about this assassin of theirs than they intended us to. That’s a starting point.”

“I wish I had your optimism,” he said ruefully. 

His wife smiled, just as tired as he was. “Swings and roundabouts,” she said. “I’m cynical about mauve being used in interior decorating. I’m extremely optimistic when it comes to covert operatives not being covert enough.”

He covered her hand with his. “Your area of expertise?”

She smiled and there was something furtive and proud in her smile. “You have no idea.”


	28. Affiliation

The blizzard had swept in from the north, reducing visibility down to ten metres at best.

Peggy tilted her umbrella towards the wind and pressed on. She was moving faster than the cars, which were currently grid-locked all the way up 3rd. Phillips had offered to get her a ride, but he and Steve had too much work to do and she was more than capable of taking a train.

It would also be more comfortable for the people she was hoping to talk to if she wasn’t accompanied by an America special ops agent or Captain America. 

Her boots were barely keeping the chill at bay, and she could not have been more relieved to see the Union Jack furling and twisting on a flagpole. The British Consulate was hardly what one would call a modest building, but then embassies so rarely were.

She hurried up the steps, shaking the snow from her umbrella and slush from her boots. The lobby was bright and warm with a fire burning in a fireplace at the far end. It was grand enough to let dozens of people wait, but currently, there was only a secretary sitting behind a desk, looking at her in surprise. 

Peggy drew on her most engaging smile. “Good afternoon,” she said. “I called to speak to a Mr Reginald Dawkins?”

The secretary checked the diary and asked her to take a seat.

The man who came to fetch her a few moments later was young, whey-faced. “This way, Miss Carter,” he said.

The building was a veritable maze of passages and chambers. She was shown into an office which was unoccupied. One wall was taken up by an array of telephones, and the young man indicated which one she should use. She smiled graciously, then waited until he left and closed the door behind her.

The telephone in question looked no different than any of the others, in that there were no numbers, only a series of colour-coded buttons. 

Peggy picked up the receiver and punched the buttons in order. The line connected and she waited, tapping her fingertips on the edge of the desk.

There was no Reginald Dawkins awaiting her call, of course. At least not any longer. Now, it was simply a name to use to be put in touch with the right people.

“Gubbins Carpetting.”

She smiled. “Hello uncle Colin.”

The man on the other end of the line laughed. “My word, Peggy. Is that you?”

“It is indeed.”

“Just a moment.”

She glanced towards the door, listening as the man on the other end of the line moved around, no doubt ensuring that he was alone. 

Major General Colin Gubbins had been her commanding officer in the earlier years of the war, before the formation of the Strategic Scientific Reserve. They had not spoken formally since her promotion, but he was still the most efficient officer she had ever met, and one she knew she could trust with her enquiries. 

When he spoke again, it sounded like a different person entirely. “Agent Carter, I presume there is a reason you have contacted me on this line.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “A base of operations has been compromised.”

Gubbins cursed like a soldier. “Your new arrangement? SHIELD, was it?”

Peggy didn’t ask how he knew. One didn’t become the head of the Special Operations Executive without having eyes and ears everywhere. Even if he was officially classed as retired, some people never left the job that was theirs behind. 

“Yes, sir,” she replied. “We believe it may have been a specialised Russian operative.”

Gubbins was silent for a long moment. “What do you know?” The words rattled out like gunfire.

“Phillips indicated he had been given intelligence from a reliable source, regarding the chatter on the lines,” she said. “I expect that came from you.” Gubbins neither confirmed or denied it, which meant it could be taken as assent. “Stark was given information that corroborated what you were told, and he witnessed an assassin, who could fall under either description at the scene. It seems the Russians are further ahead than the reports suggested.”

Gubbins cursed through his teeth. “This assassin, is there a description we should be aware of?”

“Unfortunately limited,” she replied. “Male, masked, could be anywhere from twenties to fifties.” She was silent for a moment, then said, “You might want to have your people look into weapons development programmes related to biological warfare in Russia, if they can. Based on the targets, it appears that our scientists were coming a little too close to what they are doing.”

“Not unlike your doctor Erskine?”

Peggy grimaced. It still hurt thinking of Erskine. Rescuing him was her role, but she hadn’t been able to keep him safe as she had promised. “Something of the kind,” she replied. “I expect you know about Karpov. We believe he acquired some of Zola’s test subjects, when the man was trying to recreate Erskine’s serum, and that was the basis for this new soldier.”

She could feel Gubbins’ rancour down the telephone. “This is something of rather great significance, Carter,” he observed. “Rather late to tell us now the job’s done, wouldn’t you say?”

Carter winced. “Yes, sir, but unfortunately, we weren’t aware of it until recently,” she said. 

He was silent for a time. “You have defences in place?” he said. “If this soldier has come after your scientists, they may have other targets, higher in the organisation.”

“We know next to nothing of use,” she said. “Hardly a valuable use of an asset, since we now know to expect him.”

“Quite so, quite so,” he agreed. “I’ll have my people put out feelers, and see if we can’t find any division over there that has been receiving excessive funding. Their nuclear programme seems to be draining the greater part of it, but the other science divisions hardly seemed worth the notice.”

“Best to keep all eyes open,” she said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you sooner, sir. I had no idea we had been getting information from you.”

He sighed. “Well, it is a two-way street, Carter,” he said. “We had hoped to keep you out of it. You have enough on your plate with that new husband of yours. I suppose congratulations are not unwelcome?”

Peggy wasn’t surprised at all. “Not in the least,” she said, “thank you, sir.”

“Well, I’ll keep you informed now, since you clearly have no intention to honeymoon,” he said. “Where will you be based?”

Peggy hesitated. There was no question of returning to England right away, and there was only one place she knew of that may be safe. She should have asked Steve in advance, but he would understand, and she would be there with him.

“There’s an apartment in Brooklyn we might use as a drop zone,” she replied. “I’ll have to double-check the address, but I’ll have it sent to you. Usual codes still in place?”

“That would do,” he agreed. “Be careful, Carter.”

“Likewise, sir.”

She hung up the receiver and breathed out slowly. 

If all went well, by focussing the attentions of the secret services more precisely, they might be able to at least get a little information about their enemy, if not find out what he might be capable of. 

If the same thread led them to the man who had captured Barnes as well, then all the better. 

She made her way back out into the snow-blasted streets of the city. 

Sooner or later, questions would be answered.


	29. Breathing

The hospital was unsettlingly quiet.

It was night, as far as he was aware, and Howard couldn’t sleep. 

Part of it was the pain in his chest. 

It still hurt when he tried to breathe in too deeply, and the doctors were concerned about tissue damage. They had identified the gas used in the attack, which meant they knew what measures to take, but he’d spent time in an iron lung, and then the next day hooked up to oxygen tanks.

He still was connected to the oxygen tank through the night. His breathing was erratic, so they said it was better for him to have the oxygen there in case he started struggling.

The rest of the trouble came from the fact his senses were screwed.

His eyes were messed up to the point that he could barely see more than fuzzy outlines even when people were less than a foot away from his face. He couldn’t smell a damned thing, and it wasn’t until it was gone that he realised how much he’d been used to it. His skin felt like it was pricking with needles every time anything touched it. 

Worst of all, the only taste he had, no matter what he tried to eat or drink, was the metallic tang of blood on his breath. His lungs weren’t bleeding, they assured him, but the tissue had been abraded. Somehow, that made it sound even worse, like someone had taken a grater and raked it inside his chest.

He struggled to sit up in the bed, trying to find a position where his lungs didn’t ache.

The nurses said he should call for their attention if he needed help, but he didn’t want to make a big deal about it. 

After all, he’d got out alive where a lot of people hadn’t.

Still, the doctors wouldn’t give him a straight answer on whether his sight would return or whether he would be okay. Usually, when you didn’t get a straight answer, it meant the worst outcome was expected. The thought of being left blind and helpless terrified him, especially knowing what was out there now.

He lifted his hand to adjust the oxygen mask, where it was pinching against his cheeks. 

Phillips had been by again. 

They were looking into his assailant, and work was starting on rebuilding the lab. 

From the sound of it, Dum Dum had wrecked the place to save his life, and he didn’t know whether he wanted to kick the man in the pants or give him a bonus. Maybe both. You didn’t just drive an armoured car into a research facility and wreck all the perfectly calibrated equipment. It was rude. 

He almost laughed outright at the thought, but it dissolved into a coughing fit before it even reached his lips, his ribs heaving. He fell back against the pillow, clawing at his chest and taking rasping gulping breaths of oxygen.

God, he was out of it.

Maybe it was oxygen overdose, or maybe it was the painkillers they kept him hooked up to. He didn’t know and didn’t really care either way. He just wanted to know that the man in the mask wouldn’t be standing in the shadows when his vision came back.

For all he knew, the man could be there right now and he wouldn’t have any idea.

Phillips said they had people watching the hospital anyway, and men at his doors. 

No Ruskie assassin was going to be able to sneak in.

It was almost comforting until he remembered that a Ruskie assassin had infiltrated their top-secret base without any visible effort, got through two pairs of locked doors, and managed to stage a gas attack without being stopped, and the only sign he had ever been there were some boot prints in the snow that could have been left by anyone.

He lifted his hand to rub at his eyes. They felt swollen and raw, and he didn’t even want to ask what they looked like. It couldn’t be good, and when he’d ask Steve how he looked, when he had tried to joke about his chances with the ladies, Steve hesitated for just too long.

Someone tapped lightly at the door.

One of the guards. They always let him know before they came in.

The one time they didn’t, he’d screamed blue murder, and Rogers had run in and had to hold him down until he calmed down.

“Yeah?” he called hoarsely.

The door opened. “Nurse with some meds for you, sir. One lady. Want us to come in too?”

He shook his head. “I think I can handle a single nurse,” he said, subsiding back against the pillows, one hand rubbing gingerly at his chest. 

He didn’t know how many more kinds of drugs he could take. They’d given him drugs to counter the gas, drugs for the pain, drugs for the nerves, drugs for his eyes, drugs to counter the effects of the drugs that made him throw all the other drugs up. Drugs, drugs, drugs. He’d turn into a living capsule by the time they were done.

He could hear the now-familiar squeak of the nurse’s trolley and she wheeled it into the room and closer to the bed. All the nurses wore different shoes. He could tell from the way the heels tapped on the floor. 

Howard turned his face in what he hoped was her direction. 

“What have you got for me this time?” he asked wearily, lifting off the mask. They always wanted him to swallow something or taste something or spit in something, as if it would solve the mystery of his vision.

Her shoes tapped closer to the bed, and a cold hand closed over his mouth, pinning his head back against the pillow. He tried to cry out, grabbing at the alarm, but whoever the nurse was, she knocked it aside.

“Hello, Howard.”

He went rigid.

Cassandra, or whatever she was calling herself now.

His pet spy. The woman he’d been sleeping with for a month, who had been tapping him for all the information she could get. The woman he had dumped on Phillips’ orders because he was getting in too deep. 

He tugged at her arms, but he couldn’t breathe and he was shaking and too weak to fight her back. His body sagged back in the bed and he could taste blood on his tongue, hot and thick. 

“Good boy,” she murmured, leaning over him, until her cheek was almost touching his. “I was asked to bring you a message,” she whispered, her lips brushing his ear. “Very clever, using a switch for the tracker. Very smart. But you’re not as clever as you think. You’d made arrangements. You’re going to keep them.”

He shuddered, struggling for breath, shaking his head.

“Yes, Howard,” she said softly. Her hand moved just enough to pinch his nostrils closed too. He keened in his throat, squirming helplessly. “You deceived us. We aren’t happy about that. We would like… recompense, or we might get unhappier.”

What little vision he had was getting black around the edges, and his chest felt like it was about to burst.

Her lips touched his cheek in a mockery of affection. “If we don’t hear from you in the very near future, we won’t be happy, Mr Stark.” 

She stepped back, removing her hand. He gasped explosively, breathing too deep, and his lungs felt like they had burst into flame. The pain made him arch, gasping, panting, and heard the click of the alarm button being struck. He didn’t know if it was him or her, but the pain was too much and he rolled onto his side, retching over the side of the bed, his mouth full of the taste of blood and bile.

Other people were there, around him, holding him back, and there were needles, and by the time he could choke out what had happened, Cassandra was long gone.


	30. Enemies

Stark needed to be out of the game.

A goddamned covert operative had infiltrated his hospital ward, damn near suffocated him, and was trying to blackmail state secrets out of the son of a bitch only four days after her people almost killed him.

Phillips wasn’t happy at all. 

Stark was making noises about giving them what they wanted. Course he was. There was only so far that civilian bravery could go, and when your enemy had people who could walk though locked doors to get at you, Phillips had to admit he would be pretty close to the same.

It was true Stark had plans that he could feed them, but now, knowing what they knew, there was no question of selling intelligence, even fake intelligence. 

The Russians were way more advanced in their science departments than anyone had ever suspected, and even if Stark’s predictions of decades were right, who was to say they weren’t already heading towards that?

Phillips wasn’t willing to take that chance, not now.

Stark kicked up a fuss, just like Phillips knew he would. He was being transferred to a secure facility, staffed only by people that Phillips had picked out himself, until he was back to full health. 

The only other people who knew where he was were the two who were currently working their asses off trying to get intel on their new exciting enemy.

Carter had put out word to all her underground contacts. Phillips never asked her how she knew people who were involved in street gangs in London or business leaders in Manhattan. She knew people at every end of the social spectrum, and that meant she could keep her ear to the ground.

Rogers was doing things the old-fashioned way: he went back to Lehigh on the hunt for any idea about how someone could get in. There were techs crawling all over the place, doing repairs and hunting for clues as well, but none of them turned up anything.

There was a leak, somewhere within SHIELD itself, and between that and the killer robot, they had enough on their plate. The Department of Defence, though, seemed to think they needed more to do, and kept hauling Phillips in for briefings about developments.

They wanted confirmation it was a Russian, because if a Russian operative had taken out a dozen US citizens on US soil, then they had every legal right to turn the Cold War into something a lot hotter, and that was the last thing anyone needed. Korea was already using up more soldiers than they could afford, and they were still reeling from the last war in Europe.

Every time he was called up, he said the same thing: we got no evidence of Russian involvement.

At best, they had speculation, and an English dame mouthing off to Stark.

At worst, they had the testimony of a man who survived a gas leak and was drugged out of his mind, and could have hallucinated everything. 

“You can’t just lock me up,” Stark rasped around his oxygen mask. “I swear to you Phillips, these guys aren’t kidding around. They’ve already taken out half our lab. What do you think they’ll do if we don’t do what they ask?”

“And what if we give them your tech, son?” Phillips demanded. He was standing by Stark’s bedside, as Stark was prepped for transport. “You said yourself their bugs and trackers were much more advanced than anyone gave them credit for. What makes you think they won’t be able to use your designs? What makes you think they won’t turn it on us as soon as they can?”

“What if they come after more of our people?” Stark demanded, groping out blindly until he caught Phillips’ sleeve. “I can’t let more of our people die because of a possibility. If we don’t give them what they want, they’ll come and take it.”

Phillips sighed, catching Stark’s hand. “Stark, even if you wanted to give them the data, how in the hell are you gonna tell me what data it is? I can’t read all your science mumbo jumbo, and I’m pretty sure Carter and Rogers are gonna stand where I am and say we’re not gonna pay off the people who just about killed you.”

Stark dragged his hand back, punching at his thigh through the blanket. “We put ourselves out there as bait, Colonel, and we got one hell of a bite. You think hiding me from them’ll make them go away?”

“I think you not dying is the biggest advantage we’ve got right now,” Phillips said abruptly. “Stark, you’re the best damn engineer we’ve got. If they’re getting ahead, we need you around to help us catch up. We can’t let them get ahead in the weapons game, not now.”

“And you’ll sacrifice our people for that?”

“Son, I already did,” Phillips said quietly. He rested his hand on the rail along the side of Stark’s bed, and examined the signet ring on his small finger. “I’m your commanding officer. I’m the one who makes the difficult calls so you don’t have to. If anything happens, I made the decision, you hear me?”

Stark nodded unhappily. “I don’t want anyone else to die.”

“Believe me, I know,” Phillips said. He’d been in enough battles, signed enough condolence letters, to know that feeling. He’d worn the mantle a long time, and it was weighted with decades of experience. He’d never forgotten how to mourn, even if he had forgotten how to weep for the fallen. “But this isn’t your call. You go. You rest. You recover. Then you come back and built us the best goddamned weapons this world has ever seen.”

“Yes, sir.” There was only a little defiance left in Stark’s voice. Boy was stubborn, but he was also wounded and too damned weak to argue. 

They were being watched, just as Stark knew they would be, but Phillips had taken all necessary precautions. He’d even dug out some pieces of tech that Stark had in the prototype stage, and he pressed the controls into Duggan’s hands. 

“You know what to do,” he said.

Duggan nodded grimly, getting into the driver’s seat. “I’ll get him there and keep him there.”

They drove off, a convoy of three identical black sedans, at least for the moment.

For all that Stark messed around with all kinds of tech, some of his greatest ideas were the ones that he didn’t even realise were great. 

The device fitted to the car he was in was one of Phillips’ personal favourite: camouflage plating. All Duggan had to do was flip a switch when they were halfway through a tunnel, and as far as anyone else could see, a plain, beaten-up old Ford would come out.

If anyone managed to follow them after that, they almost deserved to find them.

Phillips returned to the rendezvous to catch up on any developments with the lovebirds. The hotel was a random choice, picked from the phone book, ten minutes before they were due to meet. The walls were pale and the whole place looked like it hadn’t been decorated since the last century.

Rogers opened the door of the room for him.

Carter was already there, dabbing ointment onto bruised knuckles.

From the look on Rogers’ face, any news wasn’t going to be good news.

“Well?”

“We have our leak,” he said. 

Carter raised her eyes to him. “It seems Zola had a way with words,” she said. “He was trying to put roots down for a new branch of Hydra right in the heart of SHIELD. One of his associates let the word reach our friends in the East.”

Phillips stared at her, then looked at Rogers. “You’re telling me we’ve got Hydra on our staff?”

“You had Zola working with your people for five years,” Rogers pointed out. Your people, Phillips noticed. “Cut off one head and all that.”

Phillips sat down at the table by Carter. “Do we know how many? How high up?”

“Peggy managed to get a few names out of them,” Rogers replied grimly. 

Carter flexed her fingers. “It took some persuasion. I don’t imagine it’s all of them, but it’s a start.”

Phillips rubbed his forehead. “Scratch what I said about last week being a week from hell,” he said. “How many names did you get?”

“At least a dozen,” Carter replied frankly. “Most of them aren’t high ranking enough to have all access, but they’re the ones who could let people know where Lehigh is, and when it might be quiet enough for an attack.”

“Something new to keep us busy while Stark heals up.” Phillips rubbed at his eyes. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“We can take care of it,” Rogers said.

Phillips lowered his hand, looking at the good brave Captain. “Son, I’m old. I’m not dead,” he said. “This is my organisation, and if we gotta have pest control, I’m going to be front and centre, you hear me?”

For a moment, Rogers’s mouth curled up at one side in a tired smile. “Yes, sir,” he said. 

Phillips breathed in slowly, then out again. “We got Stark safely to hiding, last I heard,” he said. “He’s got Duggan to watch his back. I want you two running point on this. We need to find out more about this soldier of theirs, because I’m betting Hydra’s people aren’t happy that Zola was taken out. If we’re gonna have a secret war happening, we need to know as much as we can about everything.”

“Business as usual, then?” Carter said, with that devil-may-care gleam in her eye that always make Phillips wonder how the hell she was born a woman.

“Exactly, Agent Carter.” He got up. “You got some place to lay low?”

Rogers nodded. “We found somewhere.”

Phillips nodded in return. “Good. Carter, I want you working on the in-house traitors. We either need them under surveillance or out of the way. Up to you to make the call.”

“Sir.”

“And Rogers, you need to get me something on this soldier.” He scratched his jaw. “There’s not much around Lehigh for miles. He had to have a pick-up or something. Find out what you can and report back to me tomorrow, same time. We’ll schedule the rendezvous at nineteen hundred.”

He was back home within an hour. 

It had been a long while since he’d walked in through his own front door, what with one thing and another. Still, he always kept the freezer stocked with meals Inez made up for him. She kept the place clean and made sure there was always fresh milk and bread, just in case he ever managed to come home.

And, god bless her, there was even a beer.

Phillips sat out on the terrace and watched the sun on the half-frozen water for a while. 

It felt like a respite after months without a break. It wasn’t much, just half an hour before it got too cold, and he had to go back into the house, but with everything that was about to kick off, half an hour was better than nothing.

Hydra within SHIELD. Russian agents threatening his people. Top secret English spies telling him to back off. 

Sometimes, he missed the days when it was just good old-fashioned war, where you knew your enemy was the man with the gun right in front of you. Then again, if he’d stuck with that life, it’d’ve been a hell of a lot shorter and a lot more boring.

He made his way through the house, locking the doors, checking every window in every room, because he hadn’t got to the age he was without becoming a paranoid son of a bitch. Even when he climbed into bed, he put his hand under his pillow and felt the familiar weight of the Colt against his fingers.

His recruits thought it was an urban legend, a story old Phillips told to keep them on their toes. 

They believed it was too, until one of them tried to sneak in on him in the night and found out just how cold a legend felt when it pressed right between the eyes.

He always slept like a soldier, even years after leaving a battlefield. 

Sometimes the quietest sound woke him.

This time, it was the silence.

He didn’t open his eyes, didn’t even lift his head. He just slipped his hand under his pillow for his Colt. There was nothing there.

Phillips’ blood was racing in his veins, and he cracked one eye open. There was a shadow in the corner of the room that sure as hell wasn’t meant to be there, not when the moonlight was cutting in as bright as a torch.

His other gun was in the cabinet on the far side of the bed, and he moved.

He heard the click of his own goddamned Colt being cocked.

Whoever the shadow was, he was damned good.

Phillips lay still for a moment. Whoever he was, he didn’t kill Phillips when he was sleeping, which would have been the easiest way to do it. He was waiting for something. Maybe he expected begging or pleading, but if there was something Chester knew he’d never do, it was be a pissy little bitch before he died.

He sat up in the bed and spread his arms. “You here to kill me, son?”

The shadow stepped forward, raising his left arm. Moonlight gleamed on the barrel of his Colt, and the metal arm, and then, on the man’s face.

Phillips stared at him. “My god…” he whispered.

The gun fired.


	31. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some graphic imagery in this chapter

Phillips didn’t make the rendezvous.

After everything that had happened, Steve had a bad feeling about it. 

Peggy didn’t disagree.

It took some digging to find Phillips’ address. It wasn’t on any of the databases at SHIELD’s main offices, and no one they spoke to could recall hearing it. In the end, they had to call in a favour from the FBI, who reluctantly handed it over.

The address was a quiet area outside of Philadelphia, where the houses were far enough apart to give everyone much more privacy than they’d get if they were in the suburbs. The river beyond them was visible between the houses, shining silver in the evening light.

Phillips’ house was much too big for such one person, and Steve was ashamed to realise he didn’t even know if Phillips had family. He never really mentioned anyone, and he seemed to live for his work. 

“Maybe you should stay in the car,” he told Peggy as they pulled up. “Something doesn’t feel right.”

The look she gave him could have melted steel. “You’re unarmed, Captain,” she said, removing the key from the ignition. “Perhaps you should stay in the car.”

He had to smile wryly. “Good point.”

They both got out, instead, walking up to the house.

It was dark, and when they reached the door, Steve wasn’t surprised to find it was locked. He knocked once, sharply, as Peggy did a perimeter check, then looked through the windows. There was an empty beer bottle on the kitchen table, but no sign of anyone.

“Anything?” Peggy asked, as she returned, her gun in her hand.

Steve shook his head. He braced his hand against the door. “I could break it down easily enough, but I don’t think he’d be impressed.”

Peggy’s lips twitched. “You clearly never spent extensive amounts of time in the Air force,” she said, gently pushing him to one side. She withdrew a small leather packet from her pocket, and unrolled it, revealing lock picks.

“I didn’t know I’d married a criminal mastermind,” he said, as she crouched down and set to work on the lock.

“A lady has to retain a little mystery,” she said haughtily. The lock clicked open a moment later, and she rose, pushing the door open. “After you, Captain.”

He barely had stepped across the threshold when she put out her hand and offered him her second gun from the base of her back. He took it without question. Something wasn’t right, and it felt better to go in armed. 

The house was built over two levels, with a wooden staircase leading up to a balcony on the upper level. There were two doors visible upstairs, and the lower level was almost open-plan, with the kitchen visible through the hall. There weren’t many decorations, just a few framed photographs on the wall, and an old hunting rifle above the fireplace.

“Sweep downstairs first,” she said. “Then up.”

He followed her lead, going left where she went right.

The lower level was empty, deserted. All the doors and windows were closed and locked. There was no sign of anything amiss. Peggy motioned to the stairs, slipping out of her heeled shoes and padding up the polished wood in her stockinged feet. She didn’t make a sound.

He took the left door, and she took the right.

The room was a study, a desk under the window looking out over the river. Files and paperwork were neatly stacked up. It didn’t come as a surprise that Phillips was organised when it came to his home.

“Clear!” he called.

Peggy didn’t reply, and that made his stomach drop. He didn’t care if there was a risk. He ran headlong along the hall and straight into the other room. He almost crashed square into Peggy’s back. She was barely even two steps into the room.

“What…” he began, then saw.

Phillips.

He was half-sitting up against the headboard of the wall. His eyes were still open. There was a perfectly-placed bullet wound right in the middle of his forehead. Blood and bone and brain tissue were spread across the wall behind him. His own gun - the fabled Colt that lived under his pillow - lay between his feet.

“Oh God.”

Peggy reached back blindly, putting her hand on his chest. “Out of the room, Captain,” she said. “We need to get a ballistics team in here before we go near him.” Her hand was shaking, but her voice was steady. “Put in the call if you don’t mind.”

He retreated from the room, feeling sick. Phillips was one of the few people who knew him before everything. Phillips was the rock in the middle of SHIELD, the one that held everything together, and he’d been gunned down like a dog. And in his own house, in his own bed.

He didn’t know how he got down the stairs. It felt like he was moving on automatic pilot, and the telephone was in his hand and he was saying, out loud “Colonel Phillips is dead. Please notify the police and send a ballistics team at once.”

The operator at the SHIELD offices asked something, but Steve couldn’t understand what they were saying. He looked at the receiver, then set it back down in the cradle. 

Phillips was dead.

Phillips was dead, murdered in his own locked home. 

Steve sank down to sit on the bottom step, leaning against the wall. 

Phillips always seemed indestructible, sarcasm and resolve rolled into one.

The attack on Stark was bad enough, but this was a whole other level.

He didn’t hear Peggy’s footfalls as she descended, and didn’t realise she was there until her hand touched his shoulder. She sat down on the step above him, her fingers curling against his shoulder. He could hear the unsteadiness in her breathing, and god, he wished he could say something comforting. Anything. 

All he could do was lift his hand and cover hers. 

“I’m going to find the people who did this,” she said quietly, several minutes later. “I’m going to find them, and I’m going to kill them.”

“We’re not vigilantes.”

Her hand was cold under his, stiff. “No,” she agreed. Her voice was brittle. “We’re not. But the Russian agents murdered our people, they almost finished off Stark, and they killed an old man in his bed just to make a point to us. Pardon me if I don’t want to see them making any more points.”

“We don’t know it was them,” Steve said, and it sounded hollow in his ears. 

“No,” Peggy agreed in the same flat tone. “We don’t, but it does seem awfully coincidental that this happened now, the same day we put Stark into hiding.”

“It could also have been Hydra.” Steve hated thinking about that. The Russians were the prime suspects, of course, but they’d uncovered a viper’s nest in their own organisation only the day before. “Maybe someone saw us with that tech. Maybe they realised SHIELD were onto them and wanted to distract us by making us think it was the Russians?”

“Or maybe they’re working together.” Peggy exhaled an unsteady breath. “Steve, could you do me a small favour?”

He squeezed her hand. “Anything,” he said.

Her voice broke when she whispered, “Hold me?”

He twisted on the stair, looking up at her. She was white as a sheet, and there were tears on her face, streaking down her cheeks. He rose on his knees, and wrapped her up in his arms, and heard the thump of her gun slipping from her right hand, landing on the step beside her. She leaned into him, her face against his chest, her arms limp beside her.

Peggy wasn’t one to break down, never in front of people, but right now, she was shaking and smothering small, tight sobs. He didn’t know what to do. She’d been the strong one for so long, he had almost forgotten what it was like to look after someone. He didn’t know what he could do or say that would help. He just curled his fingers through her hair, stroking the back of her neck, as she did when he woke from a nightmare, and held her.

Little by little, her arms rose, wrapping around him, and she gave a small, sharp sob. 

“I’m here, Peggy,” he whispered, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. “I’m here.”


	32. Suspects

The ballistics team were in the bedroom.

The house was crawling with police, FBI, and SHIELD agents.

Phillips, Peggy knew, would have hated it and cussed them out the front door.

By the time the teams had arrived, she was calm, but it was a hollow, numb calm. She seldom wept, and when she did, it was only briefly. Anyone who looked at her would think she was not distressed at all.

She couldn’t push the image of him from her mind.

For nearly ten years, Phillips had been her commanding officer. Along with Stark, they had formed the basis of SHIELD, and everything they did, they did as a unit. It was true that he’d been sceptical about her at first, but that had changed, and more often than not, he used her as his back-up over anyone else. 

He wasn’t the kind of man who was meant to die in bed.

He wasn’t the kind of man who was meant to get murdered.

He wasn’t the kind of man who would just sit up and face an attacker without reaching for a weapon. 

But every one of those things had happened. 

She and Steve were sitting on the couch in the living room. 

They were being interrogated about everything they had seen by a joint task force of police and Federal Bureau Agents. 

Did they know who might target the man? Did they have any suspects? Was this linked to the attack on SHIELD’s facilities? Was it a Russian incursion onto American soil? Had Phillips indicated he might be a target?

She sat in silence and let Steve answer the questions, sharp, direct, soldier to authority figure. It was all she could do to remember to drink the tea in the cup in her hands. No, they didn’t know anything. No, they couldn’t be sure it was the Russians. No, they didn’t have suspects. No, he didn’t say he felt under threat.

It was all true, but to a degree.

They had suspicions.

Of course they did.

With all the snake nests they had been stirring up, they had more enemies than they could shake a stick at, and any one of those enemies could have targeted Phillips. 

Any one of their allies too. 

God only knew he had a knack for rubbing senators up the wrong way. They wanted an excuse to hit Russia. Taking out the one person who wouldn’t confirm or deny Russia’s involvement in an attack on US soil could almost be a ploy to give them an excuse.

She set down the teacup, and rose.

The men on either side of the coffee table got up too.

“I need some fresh air,” she said. “If you don’t mind.”

“By all means,” the FBI agent - Jonson or Jamieson or something - said. “We may have some questions for you later.”

She nodded, brushing her fingers against Steve’s in passing as she walked towards the front door and out into the night. The air was cool on her face, and it was quiet after the chaos of a crime scene. She sat down on the front step, wrapping her arms across her stomach.

It felt better to focus on what needed to be done.

The Hydra agents needed to be dealt with first and foremost. Even if they weren’t responsible for Phillips’ murder, better to sever and cauterize all the heads before they could act. The loss of the Director of SHIELD could be seen as a weaknesses, an opportunity for Hydra to sink their claws in, and that was something she would not and could not allow to happen.

The murderer and his or her handlers would have to wait.

She unfolded her arms and pushed her fingers through her hair, dragging it back from her face.

Her mind went back to the room.

The moment she opened the door - it was closed, she remembered that very clearly - she took in the scene even as she stepped across the threshold. Two steps were enough for her, even without switching the light on. The blood. The smell. The sight of him.

She had seen many dreadful things in her life, but that had made her throat burn with bile, and only restraint stopped her from being sick.

Everything about it felt wrong.

It wasn’t just a murder.

It was done too deliberately, to disturb and distress.

The closed and locked doors, Phillips’ own gun left mockingly between his feet, the fact that Phillips was sitting up in the bed when he was killed. Whoever killed him got in without being noticed and got to his gun, disarming him. The shot was clean, which meant that Phillips wasn’t even trying to move to arm himself. 

Scaring Stark at the hospital was one thing.

This was meant to be a message: a warning.

It had to be the Russians. That was where the greater part of their attention had been focussed, and it was possible that it could even be Karpov. After all, he was meant to be developing the elite soldiers. This kind of kill, so neat and quiet, felt like exactly the kind of thing an elite soldier would be used for.

Behind her, the front door opened.

She didn’t have to raise her head or look around to know that it was Steve.

He laid his jacket around her shoulders. “It’s getting colder,” he said.

She nodded. “Do they want me back inside?”

“I persuaded them that it can wait until tomorrow,” he replied quietly. “It’s been a long day. I told them we’d come into the local office tomorrow, first thing.” He stepped down onto the path that led back to the road. “They’re going to be working here through the night. We won’t be needed.”

“Good.”

He offered her his hand, helping her up. “Hotel?”

She nodded.

They didn’t say anything as he drove them back in the direction of the hotel. She didn’t need to ask why he wanted to drive. It was the same reason she insisted on driving when they were seeking out the resting place of Sergeant Barnes. Emotions could make people do foolish things, and that was never a good idea behind the wheel of a block of moving metal.

It was late when they got back, well after midnight.

Steve closed the door behind them, and Peggy went to the bed, sitting down on the edge.

“Are you all right?” he asked, sitting down beside her.

“Are you?” she countered, looking up at him.

He offered her his hand, and she laid her palm over his, watching their fingers lace together.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just… he was always there, wasn’t he? The Colonel. He was there when it all started. I just figured he would be there when it ended too.”

Peggy leaned sideways, her arm against his. “Someone’ll have to tell Stark,” she said quietly. Her voice sounded sharper than usual. She didn’t know if it was weariness or grief or anger or some combination of all three.

Steve nodded. “He won’t take it well,” he said. “He was arguing with Phillips about going into hiding before they sent him out.”

Peggy covered their linked hands with her other hand. “We can’t wallow,” she said, more for her benefit than his. Steve would always do what was necessary, no matter what happened. He had before, and he no doubt would again. “There’s far too much to be done.”

“Hydra first.”

It wasn’t a question.

“My thought exactly,” she agreed. “We can’t let SHIELD fail now. Not when the Colonel put so much work into it.” She took a breath, trying to steady her voice again. “We find them and burn them out, and make sure there’s no trace left behind.”

Steve was looking down at their hands. “Do you think it was Karpov?” he asked quietly. “I’ve been going through all the people it could be all night. Him and his soldiers. Maybe he wanted us to stop looking.”

“If it is him,” Peggy murmured, “this is him showing what he’s capable of.”

Steve squeezed her hand. “We need to draw him out,” he said.

She looked up at him. “What can we do?” she asked. “If it is Karpov and he does have this specialised soldier, how are we meant to find him? We can hardly issue an invitation.”

An odd, sad smile crossed his face. “That’s exactly what we can do,” he said. “I think it’s time that Captain America came back from the dead.”


	33. Vengeance

The floor was littered with broken dishes. The table lay on its side. It had all smashed beautifully when Howard flipped it over, but he could barely see it. 

All he could make out were the reflections, specks of light in a world that was still dull and hazy. He stood in the middle of it, hands knotted by his sides. His feet were probably cut to pieces. He didn’t know where his slippers were, and to be frank, he didn’t give a damn. 

“Get out,” he snapped, bracing one hand against the wall. 

Duggan looked at the floor, then back at him. “You know you’re bleeding, right?”

“I said,” he repeated, his voice low and ugly. “Get out.”

Duggan raised his hands in submission and retreated from the room. No, technically a cell, where Howard knew he was meant to be resting. Recuperating. Not just sitting on his ass and waiting to hear that one of his closest friends and allies had just been murdered.

He wasn’t sad. Not yet.

He was furious.

Phillips had told him that if anything happened, it wasn’t Howard’s fault. He’d beaten him over the head with the fact. If anything happened, it was all on Phillips. If anything happened, Phillips would take the fall.

The son of a bitch had to know what was coming, even if he didn’t realise he was going to be the main target.

Howard wanted to hunt him down and punch him right in the face.

What the hell gave him the right to step into the line of fire? For god’s sake, he was an old man! He should have been getting ready for a quiet retirement with his fishing boat. He shouldn’t have been targeted by anyone. 

Howard limped back to the bed, sitting down, lifting one foot into his lap. His fingers sought out bits of broken china and glass. It hurt like hell, but not as much as the pain in his aching lungs or the tightness in his heart.

Phillips knew their enemies would send a message. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it would come in blood.

“You stupid ass,” he muttered under his breath, wincing as he pulled out splinters of glass. His fingers were hot and sticky with blood, and he knew the nurse in charge of his care would rave at him as soon as Duggan found her. He didn’t care. 

It was a stupid gesture and useless, but it was doing something, and that was better than just sitting like an old widow woman by a window, waiting for things to get better.

The nurse came in around half an hour later.

Howard had set the table back upright, and was bent over it, writing furiously. He could barely make out a word on the page, even with his nose less than an inch from the paper, but he could see the dark shapes of the lines and knew that it would almost be legible to people who had worked with him in urgent situations before.

“Mr Stark?”

“I’m busy,” he snapped.

“You have a visitor,” she said. “And there’s blood all over the floor.”

He lifted his head to turn it in her direction. “I’m aware of that,” he said. “Who wants to bother me?”

“That would be me.”

Howard set down his pen. “Rogers?”

“Not quite,” Rogers said, and something about his tone brought back memories of the bunkers and the briefings and casual strength that the shrimp from Brooklyn had possessed long before Erskine got hold of him.

Howard didn’t know if he was pleased or angry that the bastard had to get shoved back into his armour. “Captain.”

Rogers didn’t say anything, but whatever he did, it was enough to make the nurse hurry from the room, her heels clicking on the tiles. The door closed quietly behind her, and Howard could hear Rogers moving the worst of the debris with his foot.

“You’ll need to let her patch your feet up,” he said, approaching.

“So she said,” Howard said. He reached out for the hazy blue shape and felt Rogers’ forearm under his hand. Polymer. Canvas straps. Buckles. Rogers was back in his full uniform. “What happened? They don’t tell me jack in here.”

Rogers pulled up the second chair. “Phillips didn’t make the rendezvous, last night,” he said. “Peggy and I went looking. They got to him the night before. No trace found of a break-in. No evidence that anyone was there. He was shot with his own gun in his bed.”

“Clean?”

“One shot,” Steve confirmed. “Not quite point-blank.” 

Howard was silent for a moment. “His own gun in his own bed,” he said. “They could have made it look like a suicide. Did they?”

“No.”

Howard nodded slowly. “They didn’t just want him out of the picture,” he said. “They wanted to make an example of him. They wanted to scare us.”

Rogers leaned closer. “Did it work?”

Stark felt his way up Steve’s arm. “The hell it did,” he said. He pulled Steve down towards the table, groping out for the paper with his other hand. “They wanted weapons from me. I’m going to give them weapons. I’m going to give them everything they asked for and a hell of a lot more.”

He felt the paper drag from beneath his fingers as Rogers picked it up.

“Code name Odysseus?”

Howard’s fingers curled around Rogers’ shoulder. “This is my Trojan horse,” he said, smiling grimly. “They saw me scared. They saw me bleeding. They think I’m a coward, Rogers. We’re going to use that and they won’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Stark…”

“You tell me I’m on the bench for this one and I swear to god I’ll hit you,” Howard snapped. “They killed my scientists. They destroyed my goddamned lab. They stole my research. They murdered my friend. You’re not putting me in the sidelines for this, Cap.”

“They almost killed you,” Rogers said. His shoulder was still under Howard’s hand, steady as a rock.

“Almost is the keyword,” Howard said curtly. “Almost isn’t good enough. They’re going to find out what a mistake that was.”

“We thought you’d say that.”

“And you were still going to bench me?”

Rogers’ hand was on his shoulder. “I just wanted you do know what you were letting yourself in for, Stark,” he said. “You’re not at one hundred percent, but if you want in, we’re doing this together.”

Howard tightened his grip on Steve’s arm. “Do we have a plan? Apart from you getting your stars and stripes on again?”

“I’m the distraction,” Rogers said. “They want to get our attention, they got it. They want to see what we’ll do - as an agency and as a country - and I don’t think they expected to see me again.”

Howard nodded. “And me?”

“You’re our secret weapon,” Rogers said. “You and this.” He rustled the paper. “How long will this take to put together?”

Howard closed his eyes, thinking. “How many of our team will be available?”

Steve hesitated. “We don’t know,” he said. “We found out where the leak came from, the one that told them where to find Zola.”

“One of ours?” From the moment the lab was compromised, Howard had suspected it might be the case.

“More than one.” Steve’s voice was clipped. Howard made an enquiring sound, and Steve reluctantly continued. “Looks like Zola was doing more than working with our people. He tried to set up a new division inside SHIELD.”

Howard pressed his finger and thumb to his aching eyes. “Wonderful,” he said. “This is the month that just keeps on giving, isn’t it?” He lowered his hand, leaning closer, close enough to almost make out Steve’s features. “How many are we talking?”

“Peggy’s working on it,” Rogers said. “At least a dozen. Maybe more.”

Howard winced. “I’d almost feel sorry for them,” he said. He rubbed his face thoughtfully. “If it’s just me, it’ll take longer. Especially now. But that might be a good thing. If it looks like I’m working on my own, because you and Peggy tried to shut down parts of SHIELD, if I’m doing what they want rather than what you want, it might be more convincing.”

“Whatever we need to do,” Rogers said. “We’re taking the fight to them.”


	34. Target

The blade hissed across the whetstone.

The chamber was dark, the shutters down. Lines of light cut through them, bright strips. They illuminated the bed and the weapons on it. Metal gleamed, freshly polished. A good weapon was a well-tended weapon. Efficiency was the key to achieving duty.

A wireless buzzed in the corner of the room. It was tuned into the line that the Americans considered secure. Little was being said that would be of use, but the man sitting cross-legged on the floor listened anyway.

The building was a safe house, or so he had been informed. That meant little. Four walls. A roof. Shutters. It was enough to keep him hidden from plain sight.

The blade in his hand gleamed. He turned it in the light, examining the sharpness, then slid it back into its sheath. It was not often used. A blade was a weapon for close quarters. Few of his targets saw him. Fewer still were within arm’s reach. He never used it, but it rested against the base of his back. Hidden. Prepared.

The floor creaked beneath him as he rose.

The next target had not yet been assigned.

His orders were to remain, and await further assignation.

He walked across the floor. The sliver of his reflection in the mirror drew his eyes. Image. No threat. Irrelevant. Unimportant. He bent over the arsenal on the bed, checking each. All of them were primed, polished, ready.

His last target had not been killed with any of them.

That was not a specific order.

The order was simple: infiltrate, terminate, exit.

He did not follow the order.

Instead, he had stood and watched the target sleep. The man was old, his face lined. He slept like a soldier. He slept with a gun - Colt .45 - beneath his pillow. That data was not on file. That data was… familiar. He slept with a gun to drive off assailants.

The Winter Soldier removed the gun to examine it.

Legendary. The word echoed in his mind.

Infiltrate, terminate, exit.

The Colt lay heavy in his palm.

He did not terminate.

He did not exit.

The target was a soldier. Soldiers did not die quietly in their sleep.

So he stood. He waited.

Soldiers were watchful.

Soldiers had instincts.

The target woke. He reached for his gun. A good soldier.

The Winter Soldier held the gun in his metal hand, felt the weight of it. A good gun to die by. A well-tended weapon. Suitable. He waited until the target was upright. His death was that of a soldier, facing the weapon, unflinching.

He left the gun at the man’s feet.

Infiltrate, exterminate, exit.

Order completed.

His transmitter crackled.

The Winter Soldier lifted it to his ear.

On their order, he turned on the television set in the corner of the room. It tuned like the radio. The image was striped with static. The Winter Soldier crouched down before it, watching the faces and the people.

A man behind a desk was speaking. Miraculous return from the dead. Captain America. Best news in such a time of crisis. An image appeared. A man in a uniform. A helmet covered his face. Armour. Disguise. Weapon.

The Winter Soldier braced his right hand against the television set. He leaned closer.

New target.

To be terminated with extreme and public prejudice.

“Location?” he spoke into the transmitter.

“To follow. Await orders.”

The transmitter went silent.

The Winter Soldier set it down, then sat, cross-legged, before the television.

Captain America.

They showed pieces of films, then recent footage of the man speaking to the camera. He was framed in the shot, alone, a shield on his left arm. Weapon? Defence? Obsolete. Unsuitable for present combat weapons.

He spoke of defending American values and protecting the country he stood for.

The Winter Soldier turned down the volume and watched his face. The target’s expression did not match his words. He spoke of patriotism and justice. His eyes spoke of wrath. His face said what his words did not. Anger. Violence. Retribution.

Emotion was a useful weapon.

Emotions made men weak, distracting them.

The Winter Soldier watched until the newsreel was done, then turned off the television.

The footage was useful.

The man was a soldier and a warrior.

Strong. Skilled. Fast. Trained.

He would not be killed by a shot from a distance.

He had to be seen failing. His death had to be public, visible to all. 

The Winter Soldier returned to the bed and knelt.

A new target.

Readiness was essential.

He gazed at the guns. Too large. Too obvious. Too prominent.

Captain America was a hero.

Heroes could be killed with a single shot and remain heroes.

Heroes who were beaten and broken and begging were not heroes any longer.

Extreme and public prejudice.

He withdrew his blade from the sheath and laid it on the bed.

It was small, inconsequential.

It was also a weapon for a personal death.

Face-to-face was better.

A knife in the back would disgrace no one.

A knife in the front, before the world’s eyes, would discredit the west’s hero.

On the secure line on the radio, they were speaking of Captain America.

The Winter Soldier rested his hands in his lap, closed his eyes, and listened.


	35. Confrontation

Captain America was front-page news.

Phillips’ death had been hushed up, a discreet obituary in the back of a newspaper. He went quietly, it said, in his sleep. It gave the time and place of his funeral, and no one gave it a second thought, because Captain America was all over the first dozen pages.

The press circus was just as bad the second time around as it had been the first.

There were interviews.

There were photographs.

There were television spots.

Everyone wanted to know everything.

Steve hated every second of it.

It was all he could do to put the mask on, walk out, and act like he was calm and collected.

He had to be seen. He had to draw their eye, draw them out.

After all, if they had a specialist soldier out there, someone based off his template, he had to be the one to deal with them. He had to do it for Bucky, for all the pain he must have gone through. 

It wasn’t vengeance. It couldn’t be vengeance. It had to be something else. Something that wasn’t just murder. It had to be some kind of justice. If they faced each other like soldiers, if they fought, then it was just. He had to do things the right way. He had to. It was who he was. 

It was hard enough when he thought of Bucky.

Every time he thought of what happened to their scientists and to Howard and to Phillips too, it got harder. There were too many people injured and dead. It was getting way too hard to keep a level head.

It was also turning into an assault on three fronts: Steve was working the public face, Peggy was working within SHIELD, and Howard - still fighting against his rebelling eyes - was putting together his Trojan horse package for the people behind the worst of it.

It was exhausting, trying to keep on top of all the information that was coming and going: the identified traitors, the suspected traitors, the definite allies, the sources of information, the possibilities for the assassins.

None of them were getting much sleep. 

On top of everything, they press crews kept asking if he would be joining in the war in the East. Even if he’d wanted to, he wasn’t in any shape for it. Peggy was waking him from nightmares, and when she wasn’t, it was cold and his limbs were seizing up more often than he wanted to admit.

No, he said. Captain America was a symbol for America, someone to remind them that they would be protected at home, keeping their enemies at bay.

Some called him coward. Some called him worse. He didn’t care. They could think what they wanted. He was in the news, and he was being noticed.

None of them could guess how their enemy might come at him.

The attack on the lab was neat, careful, precise, almost a believable accident. The attack on Phillips himself was just as careful, but in a completely different way. None of them expected that it would be at Phillips’ funeral, in the open, face to face.

Captain America wasn’t at Phillips’ funeral, but Steve was.

It felt disrespectful to the man to overshadow his death even more by showing up in the uniform. His passing had already been missed by so many that only a dozen people showed up. No one from SHIELD was permitted. A security lockdown was in place on all staff, put in place by Peggy. Only she and Stark were there, and Stark was keeping his distance. 

At first, he’d been relocated to a private hospital, and then he’d made a show of going back to his facilities and laboratories in Washington. As far as anyone could tell, he was recuperating in the comfort of his own home, away from Steve and Peggy and anyone else associated with SHIELD.

Steve stood by Peggy’s side at the graveside. Her hand was around his, her grip iron tight.

He didn’t know what it was that made him look away from the minister, slanting a glance beneath lowered lids.

Years of fighting on the frontline had honed his instincts. He could tell when he was being watched, and that it was with intent. There was a difference in the way the press hounded him, and the way these eyes were on him.

The press tried to be stealthy, but they weren’t any good.

Whoever was watching him, across the grass, between the graves, was very good.

He found them, lying in a shadow of a gravestone, barely visible, clothing lightly powdered in white to blend in to the ground below. The face was half-hidden by a sleeve and a mask, smoked goggles shielding their eyes from the winter sun on the snow.

With eyes on them, Steve could see the gleam of metal, the barrel of a gun, aimed at him, at Peggy, but whoever it was, they didn’t fire. He pressed his fingers to Peggy’s, and heard the rustle of her hair on her collar as she turned her head. 

“Two o’clock,” he murmured. “Ground. Square grave.”

There was a beat of absolute stillness and silent, then her hand tightened on his. “What are they waiting for?” she breathed.

Steve didn’t look away from their assailant with the gun. “Impact,” he realised as he said it. He drew his hand from hers, leaning closer to her. “I’m going to head back towards the cars. If he moves, follow. I may need backup.”

“Be careful,” she replied quietly.

He lowered his head, raising one hand to rub at his eyes. It wasn’t an entirely hollow gesture. It was hard to think about Phillips in the casket, waiting to go into the ground. He made his way down onto the path that led back to the cars.

The only reason he heard the crunch of footsteps on snow was because he was listening.

His enemy was good.

If they’d wanted, they could have had him dead several times over.

Which meant they didn’t want him dead yet.

He stopped.

The footfalls stopped behind him.

Close. Maybe half a dozen paces.

“You came to find me.”

Silence.

Steve turned on the spot.

How the man had blended it with the snow, he didn’t know. 

The assassin was standing there, clad in black combat gear, buckles and straps holding several different kinds of weapons. He was holding a sniper rifle in his right hand, casually pointed at the ground. His left arm…

His left arm was metal.

Steve’s hands curled into fists by his side.

The man from the lab. The man who had killed their scientists, and who no doubt was the man who killed Phillips.

He looked up to the man’s face. Masked. Goggles over his eyes.

“What are you waiting for?” Steve asked quietly.

The man said nothing, tossing the gun aside. It clattered between the nearest graves, and Steve barely had a chance to brace himself for the impact of the man’s full weight crashing into him, bearing him to the ground. 

He was strong, freakishly so, and fast. He got several hard blows up under Steve’s ribs, enough to drive the breath from him and fold him over, leaving him wheezing. 

Steve blocked with a sharp punch to the throat, bringing up his legs tight against his chest and wedging his feet against the man’s torso, kicking up as hard as he could. He was on his feet as the man struck one of the graves, but he rolled like a cat, braced on fingertips and toes. His metal fingers curved grooves into the frozen ground.

Steve didn’t know which of them moved first.

It was a dance. A painful, bloody dance.

He hadn’t fought anyone for too long, and punch bags in the gym didn’t punch back. He was off, and he knew it, defending instead of attacking, backing down, recoiling, and his assailant could tell, and was picking apart every single weakness. 

A backhand from the metal hand caught him across the ribs. He heard something crack, as he drew back his arm, his elbow smashing into the man’s face. The mask splintered, but didn’t break, and the man stumbled.

He recovered fast, though, too fast, and Steve’s roundhouse kick that should have laid him out flat met empty air as the man ducked and rolled , his legs snapping out and knocking Steve’s other leg from beneath him. He crashed down onto his back on the dirt, and rolled aside to dodge a blow that shattered the tarmac beside his head.

The punch was followed by a sharp kick that - if he hadn’t kept rolling - would have caught him in the middle of the spine. He scrambled up, wishing he had his shield. 

Another series of sharp punches came in a machine-gun sharp rattle: gut, head, gut, crossing arm, uppercut under jaw, hook. He blocked, but the impact of the flesh arm was almost as bad as the impact of the metal, his arms numb, and he was staggering and tilting back.

The metal hand caught him by the front of the shirt, keeping him from falling.

He could taste blood on his mouth, could feel it spattering hot on his shirt, his cracked ribs burning.

His assailant had him at his mercy.

He wasn’t beating him down.

He wasn’t shooting him.

He was just looking at him through the smoked lenses.

And just as suddenly as he’d grabbed Steve, he let go. Steve fell and the man dived, rolling, at the crack of a gunshot. Steve hit the ground, the back of his head connecting with the road with dizzying force, all the air pushed from between his broken ribs in a ragged, raw breath.

More shots rang out.

Not a calibre he recognised.

The man’s guns.

He rolled onto his side, retching. 

There was blood hot on the back of his head, and in the blur of motion, he could see his assailant darting away between the graves. His mask had shattered, his smoked lenses had fallen away, and his eyes were fixed on Peggy as he raised his gun and fired again and again. 

Steve stared, leaning unsteadily on his hands, blood running in hot trickles down his neck.

“Bucky?” he whispered as his vision faded to black.


	36. Arrangements

Steve's chest was rising and falling steadily beneath the blanket.

For the first time in weeks, he was sleeping undisturbed by nightmares. It wasn't by choice, though. He was closer to unconsciousness than true sleep. Peggy was sitting on the window-ledge watching over him.

When he woke, she knew she had to be there, given their location: his former apartment in Brooklyn. She remembered how shaken he'd been after he visited, months earlier, but they needed somewhere to lie low, somewhere he could rest and recover.

He might not be happy about it, but she knew he would prefer it to a hospital, and it was more private than a hotel.

The attack hadn't been unexpected, but it had still come as a shock. She'd never seen a fight so fast and so violent in all her years in the military. Steve so often surpassed people with his physical advantage, but the man who attacked him outmatched him by far.

Both men had moved with lightning speed and force. The sound of the assassin's fist meeting Steve's ribs sounded like a shovel striking wet cement. She had tried to get a sightline on the attacker, but they were both too quick, and Steve was in the firing line before she could take the shot.

Until, inexplicably, Steve was falling and the assassin caught him by the shirtfront, holding him up. The tableau caught her by surprise, even with the assassin's back to her, a broad, unblocked target.

Her finger pressed to the trigger. It made barely a sound, barely a scratch of metal on metal, but the assassin was moving, diving, dodging the shot. He had his gun up and she fired, hitting the mask, hitting the goggles. He was moving too quickly for a clean shot. One of his shots caught her arm, but she barely felt it.

He got between the graves, hurling a smoke bomb, and was gone by the time the smoke cleared.

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of chaos: ambulances and hospitals, blood and bandages, stitches and questions. Finally, eventually, they were able to slip away, and Duggan carried Steve up the stairs to his old apartment, still unconscious.

The fight had done a number on him. The head injury was the least of their concerns: on top of a hairline fracture to his skull, he had four broken ribs, severe subdermal bruising on both arms that left his upper arms swollen and blackened, suspected internal bleeding from his spleen.

The serum would take care of the worst of it, but it would take some time.

What made it worse was knowing that the attacker wasn’t even trying to kill him. She could see by the way he fought that he was assessing Steve, finding his weaknesses, testing his vulnerabilities. He could have killed him. He even had him at his mercy in the last moments before she fired.

Whoever the man was, he was testing Steve. That a test could be so brutal and so bloody and so… casual was terrifying. As for the why, she didn’t even want to begin to imagine.

In the next room, the kettle was whistling.

She rose from the window seat and went through the doorway into the small kitchen.

The flat didn't quite fit Captain America, but it certainly fitted Steve Rogers. It was neat and compact, much like him. There wasn't much in the way of decoration, but given how long it had lain empty, she wasn't surprised.

She filled the hot water bottle and the tin mug, watching the leaves swirling in the water like snowflakes in a blizzard. A rap at the door made her turn, one hand going to her holster as she made her way across the floor in her stockinged feet.

"Yes?" she said.

"It's uncle Colin."

It felt like one of the knots in her chest unravelled.

"One moment," she said. She hurried back through to the bedroom, tucking the hot water bottle in beside Steve, then returned to the front door. Out of habit, she had her gun raised, and only opened the door on the latch to glance out.

Major General Gubbins was standing there, a scarf around his neck, a hat pulled down low over his brow. He has a briefcase in his gloved hand, and looked more like an elderly businessman than the former head of the Special Operations division.

She opened the door wide enough to let him enter, dusting the snow from his shoulder.

"General."

"Agent Carter," he said cordially, touching the rim of his hat. "I had hoped to find you here."

"I spotted your eyes when we arrived," she said. "A young man in the shop across the road? Black hair, round spectacles?"

He nodded in approval. "I'll be having words with Blythe. His covert skills are somewhat lacking."

She took his overcoat and hat, hanging them beside the door. She hesitated before turning back to him. "I suppose you have heard."

"About Phillips? Yes. I expect it wasn't as peaceful as the news sheets indicated?"

"Not in the least," she said, as he took a seat by the small, square table. He never waited for her to sit first, and she appreciated that. She was treated as an equal, not just a woman. She returned to the kettle and poured a second cup of tea. It felt better to keep her hands occupied. "That special operative you heard about has been quite busy."

"Damn." Gubbins sighed. She could hear the rasp of his fingers brushing his moustache. "The lab, Phillips, and your fellow?"

She nodded, stirring the tea.

"Good god," he murmured. 

She returned to the table, setting the cup down in front of him. “If you have any intelligence you would be willing to share with us, sir, I am quite sure I can reciprocate in kind.”

Gubbins studied her. “Any information I can provide won’t necessarily give you Karpov’s exact whereabouts,” he said. “That was what Phillips was looking for. His general locale, perhaps, but the man is very good at keeping to the shadows.”

Peggy sat down on the opposite side of the table. “To be quite honest, sir,” she said, “at this point, I would take anything.” She wrapped her hands around the tin mug. It was enamelled in blue, with chips around the rim. “If I provide you with faces, I have a small favour to ask of you.”

“Faces, Carter?”

She nodded shortly. “Captain Rogers is something of an artist,” she said. “We have some renditions of people you may have an interest in.”

She could see he was intrigued, even though nothing about his face moved. “Is that so?”

“Quite. If I provide them, I need your oath, sir, that you will do as I ask.”

His blue eyes narrowed marginally. “Ask first,” he ordered.

She looked down at her tea, breathing in the fragrant steam, then looked back up at him. “We have plans in motion. Information will be falling into their hands, shortly to be passed on in the direction of their handlers, information that ought to lead us directly to their centre of operations. Once that information is where we require it, we need those agents rendered null and void. Tabula Rasa, sir. No one can know where they have gone. No one can find them.”

Steve, she knew, would not be best pleased, but Steve never had been a member of Covert Operations.

Gubbins gazed at her and took a sip of his tea. It wasn’t her best cup, but he would never voice a complaint when there were far more serious matters at hand. “Permanently?”

“That, I leave to your discretion, sir.”

He nodded curtly. “As you will,” he agreed. “You have my word on it, Carter.”

All that remained were the details.

Her tea was stone-cold by the time Gubbins departed. He left behind a file, and took away a bound folder containing all the drawings Steve had left in Phillips’ care. She had acquired them by less than honest means, but she hardly imagined that breaking into a crime scene for a second time would garner much notice.

She locked the door behind him, glanced over the contents of the file, then returned to the bedroom. Steve had been asleep for hours. She had assumed that would remain the case, but he was not.

He hadn’t moved, halfway propped up beneath the covers, pillows on either side to support him, more arranged beneath his neck and shoulders to prevent him from depressing the hairline fracture in his skull. His eyes had been closed, but now they were open and he was staring blankly at a point on the ceiling, his face ashen.

“Steve,” she murmured, approaching the bed and sitting down.

Perhaps he’d heard what was being said in the other room, the delicate negotiations on the lives of their enemies at the hands of her friends. Sometimes, he could be so good that the ugly side of her nature shocked him. 

He didn’t look at her, hardly even reacted, until she touched his hand gently. He flinched, as if startled, blinking.

“Steve?” she said again, more concerned now. “Steve, are you all right? How’s your head?”

Blue eyes slowly turned towards her. 

He looked lost, something she had never truly seen in him before. She had seen him disheartened, grieving, angry, but never like a frightened child. 

“It was him,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Peggy, it was Bucky.”


	37. Repayment

Howard’s senses were still shot all to hell.

His vision was back, give or take occasional shadows and sunspots, but everything else was wrong. The taste of blood was still lingering at the back of his throat, the same thing affected every scent, and his skin felt like it was being pricked all over with needles all the time.

Being out of the quiet of his lab was hell. There was noise everywhere, brightness, sharpness, and so many tainted smells.

It was necessary, though.

He was in New York city in a discreet diner. High class, where no one would ask questions about the stick he was still using to help him get around. Even though it was blowing a blizzard outside, he had smoked glasses on. His vision was back, but the world was too bright to focus on all at once.

He was grim-faced and silent, waiting.

There was a drink on the table, but it had been sitting so long that the ice cubes had all melted to nothing.

“Hello, darling.”

He raised his head to look at the woman he had called Cassandra.

She looked right at home, her hair coiffed, her dress elegant, her furs thick and soft. She didn’t look like a woman who would half-suffocate a man and betray her own country.

He lifted the folder from his lap and set it on the table, shoving it towards her. “That’s what you came for.”

She folded down gracefully into the seat. “What? No drink? No small talk?” She propped her chin in her hand, her elbow on the table. “Where’s the Howard I met in London?”

Howard removed his glasses and looked coldly across at her. “He never existed,” he said.

She laughed, and reached out to take the folder.

Howard’s hand moved suddenly, catching her wrist. “We’re done here,” he snapped. “I never want to see your face again.”

She rounded her eyes, feigning dismay. “You’re breaking up with me, Mr Stark?”

“Threatening you,” he corrected. “You come near me again, and I’ll put a bullet in your head. Do you understand me?”

For a moment, she looked surprised. “Mr Stark, the man who makes the weapons but never wields them? Why do I find that hard to believe?”

“Don’t imagine you know me,” he said. He released her wrist, rising from the chair and picking up his cane. “If you want to test me, you’re welcome to do so. Just remember, sweetheart, I have a large arsenal and very good aim.”

He didn’t look back at her, striding out through the restaurant and down the stairs to his waiting car. Jones was his driver.

The Commandoes had reassembled with the official return of the Captain. None of them had been called on, but a few days after Phillips’ funeral, they’d all showed up at one of the hotels they’d always used in New York and called up Howard on one of the secure lines. They were back, they said, for the Captain.

Two levels of the hotel were set up to use as a base as long as they were needed, and god only knew they were. 

Rogers was due to meet them there that evening. He hadn’t been seen since Duggan dropped him and Carter at Steve’s old place in Brooklyn. 

A terse telephone call from Carter the night before told him Steve was recovering, but any other news ought to be relayed in person. After the people he’d dealt with, he wasn’t inclined to disagree. The more discretion and the fewer the number, the better.

“You done, Stark?”

Howard nodded. “If all goes to plan,” he murmured. He waited until the car pulled out into the traffic then withdrew a tracking console from his coat pocket. The signal was strong, and the beacon was on the move. He smiled grimly. “Looks like our little fish has taken the bait.” He looked up at the rearview mirror. “Get us back to the hotel.”

The hotel's penthouse suite looked more like a military facility.

The Commandoes had been filled in on everything that had happened in their absence. Carter had ensured that they had ready access to the SHIELD database. They had maps spread out on every available wall. Notes, profiles of known Hydra agents, and photographs dotted the widest wall in the suite.

Montgomery nodded in salutation from one of the tables scattered with piles of communiqués to and from SHIELD agents, some still awaiting decoding. If anyone could sift out any other traitors, it would be him. Morita was at the radio, snapping questions down the line.

While it wasn't the still quiet of Howard's lab, it was much more bearable than the noise of the restaurant or the chaos of the streets.

"Everything go to plan, Stark?" Morita asked, setting down the microphone.

"So far," Howard agreed, carrying his console over to the table, his eyes on it. "Any word from Carter yet?"

"She just called on Duggan to play cab," Morita replied. "Should be here in half an hour."

Howard removed his coat, draping it over the back of the chair. It felt too heavy on skin that was already too tight. It was better to be too cold than to feel smothered. "Good," he said. "At least we have some good news for them." He sat down, drawing the console closer to him. The flickering light was on the move across the city. "Or news, at least."

Morita peered down at it. "Is that going to work if she heads out the country?"

Howard nodded. "It's amazing how inspirational blackmail can be," he said. "I wouldn't have come up with this technology without her."

Morita left him to his data, and he was still sitting there when Carter and Rogers arrived. He turned in the seat, and had to bite back a profanity. Rogers looked like hell. Duggan said he'd taken a beating, and it was still showing on his face, but it was worse than just cuts and bruises.

Before any of them could speak, Carter stepped ahead of Rogers.

"Gentlemen," she said briskly, "if you could all take a seat."

While they gathered, dragging chairs over to the wall display, Howard kept eyes on Rogers. He was walking slowly, stiffly, like an old man. Everyone left the couch vacant for him. Howard wasn't surprised at all. 

Carter was unrolling sheets of paper from a tube, pinning them up on the wall. They were covered in drawings, ink sketches of a man in black with a metal arm. He was masked and armed. Howard's heart thumped against his chest, and he rose from his chair so sharply that it fell over with a crash.

"Stark?" Duggan said. 

"That's him," he said, his voice echoing in his own ears. "That's the man from the lab."

Carter's hand went still on the paper. "You're sure, Stark?"

Stark reached out to lean against the back of Morita's chair. He felt ill. That was who appeared in his nightmares, even when he couldn't see. "Positive," he said hoarsely.

"Is that the guy who attacked you, Cap?" Jones asked.

Rogers nodded. "He's the Russian's new secret weapon," he said. "We think he's the one who killed Phillips as well."

"And he's going to come after Captain Rogers again," Carter said, her voice clipped. "The first attack was only to test his defences. Next time, it won't be so merciful."

"So we take him out," Duggan said. "We've done it before. We can do it again."

"No." 

What made Howard look at Rogers, forgetting the knee-knocking terror shaking him, was the quietness of Rogers' voice. 

"Cap?" Jones murmured. 

"We can't take him out," Rogers said. "Peggy, show them."

Carter looked at him. She looked worried. "We can't be sure, Steve."

Rogers looked back at her. "I'm sure," he said quietly. "Show them."

She unrolled the last piece of paper and pinned it up. 

It was the same man, but half-hidden behind a wall. His mask was gone. There was blood on his face. The whole image was made up of sharp brush strokes, as if Rogers wanted to get it down in a hurry. When Howard focussed on the whole image, he understood why.

So did everyone else. 

"Jesus," Duggan breathed.

Steve's voice cut across the stunned silence. "They took him from us," he said. "We're going to take him back."


	38. Preparation

The target was not as much of a threat as the Winter Soldier had been advised.

The fight was too easy, and there were a dozen occasions when he could have terminated the target. His orders were clear. It had to be public and it had to be damaging. The target had to be in the uniform, not a suit that sat wrongly on his broad frame, with fair hair and blue eyes.

That combination, a suit the wrong size, and those features were not his target.

He remembered them clearly.

They had not fought one another before, the Winter Soldier was certain of that. And yet, the man’s features were familiar, and they were not his target. They were to be… protected? That seemed erroneous. Something in the situation was not correct.

His handlers were already displeased that he had faced the man already. Two of them had come to his bolthole to express their displeasure. He was meant to analyse the man at a distance, they informed him, as the cuffs at his wrists cut deep. His efficiency was insufficient. They placed the wires at his temples, and brought his mind into focus once more, painful and sharp. They left him once they were done, on the proviso that they might return if he acted on such foolish impulses again. 

The burns on his wrist were faded to dull red now, a reminder. 

He cleaned his weapons again in turn. He laid each one out, taking it apart, wiping it down, reassembling it. They would not be required when he faced Captain America again. It would be hand-to-hand combat. The symbol of American strength killed by nothing more than the bare hands of a Russian soldier.

The only exception was his knife.

He had no need of sleep. He ate only what his handlers provided, bland blocks of food laced with the chemicals to maintain his alertness and strength. 

Day followed night followed day.

His weapons were disassembled, cleaned, reassembled.

He waited.

The words on the radio and the television indicated that Captain America had not been seen in the public eye for several days.

The Winter Soldier had ensured that. 

On analysis of the fight, he recalled two occasions where he must have cracked ribs, at least one uppercut to the man’s abdomen that should have caused internal bleeding, and sufficient blows to bruise and strain muscles in shoulder, arms and chest. Any man would take some time to recover from an assault like that.

The Winter Soldier considered his victim.

On reflection, this Captain America fought better than many he had fought before. Most could not stand their ground against him. Most would fall at one blow, but this Captain America kept to his feet and got up time after time, even when it would have been wiser to submit.

A thought came to him.

Words.

Meaningless to him.

I had him on the ropes.

The Winter Soldier frowned. His hands stopped moving on the gun he was cleaning.

On the ropes?

There were no ropes.

The man had not spoken to him.

Where had the words come from? His memories? No. He had not encountered the man before, not in the course of his duty. None of his handlers had spoken those words to him. They only gave orders. They did not make statements.

He set down his weapons, frowning.

The crackle of the radio drew his attention.

He unfolded from the floor and went over to it, picking up the receiver.

Captain America was to be present at a rally the next day. It was scheduled for fifteen-hundred hours, with an audience made up of political figures, senators, and members of the public, all of whom had to see him fall.

The Winter Soldier listened to the details of the location, the defences, and the layout.

He wrote nothing down. It was unnecessary.

The rally was accessible by ticket only. His ticket would await him at the ticket office, labelled for John Smith. 

It would involve blending into a crowd made up of several hundred people, and drawing no attention. Hiding in plain sight was his skill. Mingling with others, he had also been trained in, but required more focus. More enemies, more risk.

The Winter Soldier laid down the radio and went to the suitcase at the end of the bed.

His handlers had provided it. Sometimes, they required that he appear as a civilian. They provided clothing for those occasions, and all the accoutrements he would require.

He looked at his face in the mirror.

It was not the face people could overlook.

He recollected the men in the street, their hair clipped short and slick, their faces clean-shaven, their clothing pressed. Those were the kind of men who would attend a rally alongside people of power and influence.

He withdrew his knife from his back. The blade was honed to razor-sharpness.

The Winter Soldier stared at his face. He caught a handful of his hair, and drew the blade through it, slicing it as if it were a strand of thread. Handfuls fell, dark, tangled, unwashed. He would need to wash, make himself presentable, civilian, every day, socially acceptable.

The blade was cold on his face.

It was not necessary. The stubble would regrow by morning, requiring a second shave, but it was something an every-day man would do: shave and clean up and make himself look like he hadn’t crawled out from behind a trash can.

That was an every-day man thought, he observed.

He closed away his weapons as night fell, ate his rations, and lay on the bed, his hands folded across his chest. The light on the ceiling buzzed and flickered. People were arguing in another apartment. He traced the cracks in the ceiling with his eyes.

The list of orders were simple.

Collect ticket.

Enter rally.

Locate the man called Captain America.

Terminate him before the eyes of the rich and powerful and reporters.

Exit.

No strategy had been provided.

It would not be a simple matter of walking out, as it had been at the old man’s home. 

There was no limit on the collateral.

The next morning, he washed and shaved as any man might.

He donned clothing that felt unnatural: a shirt with collar, a tie, a suit. Formal, respectable. He slicked his hair with gun oil, for want of any other kind. Finally, he chose his weapons.

Such a rally would have wardens to check those attending. He had no need of guns for Captain America himself, but his exit might require some kind of weapon. His knife was at his back, and he holstered a small pistol on either side of his ribs, beneath his arms.

Anything else would be noticed and suspect.

He looked at himself in the mould-spotted mirror.

He looked young and dignified. Average. Inconspicuous. 

His right hand moved of its own accord and adjusted the tie. A gesture he must have seen another doing, loosening it just a little. Not too respectable, but just enough.

The outside world was cold, but not unbearable. There was snow on the ground, and ice on the sidewalks. His overcoat kept out the worst of the chill, and the hat he wore made him look like any other man.

He smoothed his gloves over his hands, then slipped his hands into his pockets, and walked in the direction of the train station.


	39. Reunion

Steve was out of sight at the grand hall where the rally was being held.

Before he had reunited with the Commandoes, he and Peggy had planned everything.

There had been arguments as well, some of them heated, frustrated, exhausted. He couldn’t be sure that it was Bucky, she insisted. She never called Bucky his name, though. He was always the Sergeant or Barnes. Never Bucky. 

She was sure the blow to Steve’s head had addled his wits, but Steve stood his ground. He did the drawings that became the focal point of their meeting with the Commandoes. It was Bucky. He’d known his friend long enough to recognise him, even half-masked and wild-haired and dangerous.

He also knew why she didn’t want it to be true.

If it was just a nameless, faceless assassin, they could be treated with the same mercy they had shown others. Someone like that could be killed. Peggy wanted vengeance for Phillips. If the assassin was Bucky, she would have to kill Steve’s best friend, and a man she had known and worked with.

If it was Bucky, it complicated everything. If. It was Bucky.

The whole moment, with the blood and smoke and pain, was frozen with crystal clarity behind his eyes. His friend, sprawled there, on the ground, raising his head and lobbing a smoke grenade, then vanishing.

It was Bucky. There was no question in his mind about it.

He looked down into the hall that was to serve as the trap. 

It was a wide open space. 

Peggy had arranged matters so there were no chairs. If people needed to run, they would have the space to do so. There were guards along the walls, most of them hand-picked by Peggy herself, and every one of them had been warned to be on their guard and given intensive evacuation training.

He rested his hands on the banister, watching the people milling around. 

It was a risky venture, having politicians present, but if everything went to plan, then it would be an answer to all the question those senators had been casting Phillips’ way. Either way, they would have an answer about Russia’s involvement.

“Steve.”

He didn’t turn at Peggy’s voice.

“How are things going down there?” he asked quietly.

“Everything is in place,” she murmured, approaching him.

Things hadn’t been right between them for days, and they both knew it was all because of the identity of the man. She needed a target, and they’d had one, until he’d snatched it from under her nose. She was tired and she was on edge as much as he was.

She was silent for a moment, then covered his left hand cautiously with her right.

He looked down at their hands, parting his fingers to let hers settle between them. “I couldn’t just let you kill him,” he said, his voice low and unhappy. “Not without knowing.”

“I know,” she replied just as quietly, “but after seeing Stark, Phillips, you…” She took a slow breath and released it. “I hate seeing people I care about getting hurt.”

Steve nodded. “So do I.”

Her fingers curled against his. “If it is him,” she said, “you can’t know you’ll be able to save him, Steve.”

“If it was me, what would you do?” he asked, turning his head to look at her.

The smile that flicked across her lips was brief, sad. “Exactly the same as you are,” she said quietly. “I would try and if all else failed…” She shook her head. “Could you be merciful? End him to save him?”

Steve had to turn away. “I don’t know.”

She clasped his hand. “We’ll see what happens here, first,” she said. “Anything beyond today, we can work on as it comes.”

He nodded gratefully, then raised his other hand to his ear, the radio comm crackling.

“Stark?”

Stark was in the gallery overlooking the entrance of the building, out of sight and out of harm’s way. He - and the Commandoes - hadn’t been delighted by the plan, but it was already in motion, and every one of them told Steve he was nuts to line himself up as live bait.

Peggy was right when she said his attacker was holding back, and testing him. She was also right when she said he’d attack again. They were just giving him an open target.

Stark was terrified by the idea. He had more reason than most. He’d been face to face with the assassin in the lab. He’d seen what the assassin - Bucky - was capable of. 

“We have eyes, Rogers,” Stark’s voice was unsteady. “Looks like you were right.”

Steve’s heart thumped against his chest. “Where?”

“Just coming in the main doors,” Stark replied. “He’ll be in the hall in less than twenty seconds. Dark blue suit. Hat.”

Steve searched the crowd, and his legs shook beneath him at the sight of Bucky walking through the open doors. He wasn’t dressed in the leathers and combat blacks anymore. He looked like he had when he got back from a job interview when he was twenty-one, head up, confident, a quizzical half-smile on his lips. His tie was even loosened like it had been that day. He removed his hat with a gloved hand, looking around. 

It was like looking at a ghost.

He didn’t move like Bucky did, though. There was too much purpose in his stride. His eyes were constantly moving, taking in the hall, no doubt working out an exit strategy and the vulnerabilities of the room.

“My god.” Peggy breathed. “Steve…”

He had to squeeze her hand. He couldn’t have spoken, even if he wanted to. 

They stood there just a little too long, then Peggy drew away. “I’ll get everyone into position,” she said. She touched his arm lightly. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head. “Go,” he said, and his voice sounded like a stranger’s. “I’ll suit up.”

It felt like he was moving in a dream, everything slowing down around him as he pulled on his uniform and lifted his helmet to his head. 

He would have to hurt Bucky to stop him, and he didn’t want to do that, but it was necessary. Bucky would never have beaten him like he did at the cemetery. If there was any of Bucky left in the assassin - there had to be, he couldn’t believe he was gone completely - he had to subdue him and get him somewhere quiet, somewhere that he could help him.

The Commandoes were positioned around the room.

Stark had armed them all with the best tranquiliser guns he could lay his hands on.

Trouble was that they couldn’t just start shooting, even if they knew Bucky was a threat. He might well have body armour under his clothing, and if he was attacked and the sedation didn’t work, he might go off like a loose cannon. It wouldn’t look good. 

They couldn’t even do it stealthily, because having someone collapse and get dragged off would look bad. That wasn’t even taking into account the possibility that they wouldn’t get anywhere near him.

His handlers were going to make him kill in a display. It was only right that Steve and the Commandoes turned their plans on their head.

He fastened the collar of his uniform.

His hands were shaking, but he took a breath to calm himself. It had to be done, and it was being done for Bucky’s sake and theirs. It would reassure their country that they were safe, it would stop them asking questions, and above all, it would get Bucky back to them.

He descended the stairs to cheers and applause, and went up to the podium.

If Peggy was right, it wouldn’t just be an assassination by gunshot. A gunshot would make him a martyr. It would be something close-up, something to make him look weak. That would mean hand-to-hand combat again, so as long as he was on the podium, and speaking, he was able to take a measure of things.

It was strange, looking down at the crowd and finding Bucky’s face looking back at him without any trace of recognition. Bucky was watching him intently, his focus absolute, and when Steve descended from the podium - not even caring if his speech made any sense - he saw the man start to move towards him.

Around the room, the Commandoes started moving in and Peggy discreetly ushered people towards the doors. Some went, some lingered, some wanted to shake his hand, and then Bucky was right in front of him, smiling a bland, inane smile that was like a punch in the chest.

Steve smiled back at him, his lips trembling. “Hey Bucky.”

A furrow appeared in the man’s brow. “Who the hell’s Bucky?” he asked, his hands flexing by his side.

His voice, it was the same, and Steve forced himself to focus, forced himself not to think of this as his friend. This was the assassin wearing his friend’s face. This was the assassin whose hand was moving.

Steve blocked the blow from the right hand, and ducked under a punch from the left, spinning into a crouch and slicing out with his right leg. He caught Bucky behind the knees, throwing him off-balance. Bucky fell, but was scrambling up in a second, hat cast aside, body tensed for battle. One hand was behind his back, and he brought out a knife, short and sharp.

Around them, people were yelling and screaming and running for the doors.

Steve didn’t give a damn.

He kept his eyes on Bucky’s face, and saw the flicker the split-second before Bucky attacked. 

God, he was fast. He feinted left and punched from the right. His blade moved like quicksilver in the air. He struck up, when it looked like he was stumbling down. 

Steve managed to catch his wrist, smashing his hand against the floor. The knife skittered away, but he couldn’t fool himself into thinking the danger was gone. 

Bucky twisted in his grip, breaking free. He arched back, avoiding Steve’s fist, and caught Steve’s wrist. He jerked Steve’s arm and twisted, rolling his body to flip Steve over his head and bringing him crashing down onto the marble floor. 

Steve, winded, lashed out with his other arm, catching Bucky behind the head, fingers squeezing his neck, and twisted his own body around sharply. Bucky was still holding his wrist and he cursed raggedly when he felt his shoulder pop, but he managed to snap his legs around Bucky’s torso, locking one of Bucky’s arms down.

Bucky snarled, baring his teeth, and twisted the wrist he was holding.

“Now!” Steve gasped out, pulling his wrist against Bucky’s arm, keeping him focussed.

Jones, Morita and Dernier were all there.

Steve saw the assassin’s expression give way to Bucky’s. He saw sudden child-like terror in Bucky’s eyes as three tranquiliser guns were aimed at him and fired.


	40. Liability

It was worse than they could have anticipated.

Once subdued, Barnes was taken by the Commandoes to a facility within SHIELD. It was little more than a bunker, with solid walls and three layers of secure doors to even access the cell. It was made to hold someone as strong as Steve.

They left him there, under close surveillance, to regain consciousness. Steve wanted to be in the room, but general consensus was that they needed to see how the man who was once Barnes would react to captivity. Closing Steve in a cell with him hardly seemed a wise option.

Stark had set up camera feeds, built into the walls, so they could observe him.

Steve paced the control room like a caged big cat, silent, furious.

Peggy had no idea what she could say to him to comfort him, not when she hadn’t believed him, and especially not now that his friend was there, in front of him, and didn’t have any idea who he was. 

They watched the footage.

Barnes stirred and took in his surroundings like a soldier. 

He tested the door with echoing blows. He tore at the walls like a trapped animal. He circled the room over and over again. And then, he did something none of them expected: he started beating his head hard against the wall, splitting the skin open, blood spattering everywhere.

Steve was out of the control room and down the corridor in a split-second.

Peggy leaned mutely on the back of his vacated chair.

Hydra operatives were inclined to death by cyanide to avoid capture.

Perhaps the Russian operatives were under the same orders, by whatever means necessary.

She watched helplessly as Steve raced into the room, wrestling the bleeding man to the ground and holding him there, pinned with arms and legs wrapped around Barnes’s body. Barnes was struggling, crying out inaudibly, and Steve was holding him tightly. He was whispering to him, his lips moving close to Barnes’s ear, but Barnes kept thrashing and jerking weakly, blood all over both of them.

In the end, they had to restrain him in a heavy-duty straight jacket. His legs were bound together as well, and Steve was the one to hold him down and fasten the buckles. He was silently weeping as he did it, one hand hesitantly smoothing Barnes’s hair.

Barnes fought and cursed and sobbed and struggled against him, and Peggy was standing by the door when the man finally crumpled to the ground, exhausted by his struggles.

Day after day, it was a repeating pattern: Steve trying to help the man, and Barnes recoiling and struggling and thrashing until he folded in exhaustion. The Commandoes were always there, in pairs, and Peggy would stand by too, watching.

Finally, after too many days of watching Steve growing more and more haggard, she stepped into the room herself. 

“Steve,” she murmured. “Go upstairs.”

Steve looked up at her, wariness all over his face. “You’re not going to hurt him,” he snapped.

She knew why he would assume so, and knew that if she had to, she would be the one to put a bullet in Barnes’ brain. “No,” she agreed. “I won’t hurt him. I only want to talk to him in a way he may understand. Maybe I can get through to him.”

Steve put his hand on Barnes’ shoulder, squeezing. Barnes flinched away from him, and that made Steve recoil. The pain on his face was worse than anything she could have done to Barnes herself. He got up stiffly and walked towards the door.

“We have to help him,” he said quietly. 

She lifted her hand to touch his chest. “We’ll do everything we can,” she said gently. “You go. Get some rest if you can. I’ll do what I can now.” She nodded to Morita and Montgomery, who fell into step beside him. It was more than likely he would need their help on the stairs.

She waited until he was at least two corridors away before closing the door, then turned back and looked at their captive. 

Barnes was restrained at a point in the centre of the floor, held in place so he could neither break free or strike his head on the floor or walls. It was hardly a comfortable position to be in, but it was far better than being dead.

While he had stopped looking at Steve, avoiding all eye contact and cursing at him in Russian, he was looking at her. There was wariness in his expression, his body hunched and tensed, as if he could see the hostility she felt towards the creature that had killed her allies.

She approached him calmly, crouching down in front of him, never breaking eye contact.

His chest was rising and falling rapidly. She could see his arms straining against the bindings of the straight jacket. He’d stopped fighting against Steve, but for her, he was fighting again. He didn’t want to be helpless in front of her.

“Stop,” she murmured in Russian, something she had learned from her Governess so many years ago.

He froze, staring at her like a trapped animal.

“Name. Rank.”

He shrank back from her, his expression closed.

She propped her arms on her upraised knees. “You know you will not be permitted to put an end to yourself, soldier,” she said. 

Dark blue eyes narrowed. “I will tell you nothing,” he whispered. His voice was rougher than it had been, rendered hoarse with disuse.

She caught his chin in her hand. He tensed, but didn’t pull away. He was accustomed to that kind of treatment, she realised. His pulse was fluttering at her touch, wild, but as she watched him, she saw the way he evened out his breathing, and slowed his heart rate. That spoke of training she didn’t even want to contemplate. Utter control.

“You don’t need to tell us anything,” she said. “We know how many you have killed on this soil. We know their names. We know the dates. We know who sent you. We are in the process of locating them. This cell is all you have left.”

He stared at her, long and hard. “And him.”

“Him?”

He jerked his head towards the door. “I have him.”

Something in his tone chilled Peggy to the bone. Her fingers tightened around his jaw and she bent closer. “Once, you did,” she said. “Once, you protected him. Now, you are his enemy and his captive, nothing more.” Her voice was cold and hard. “Now, I protect him. You harm him, I harm you, do you understand me, soldier?”

The muscles in his cheek and jaw moved beneath her fingers. His eyes were still fixed on hers, searching for something.

“Once I protected him?” he echoed, and for a moment, the lines in his face seemed to soften. It was only for a split second, then he bared his teeth. “He comes. He stays here. He no longer fights or stands before the people. I have him.”

Peggy drew her hand back, watching him.

There had been a flicker, a very momentary glimpse, of Sergeant Barnes, as was. 

Perhaps Steve was right again.

“The same applies,” she said abruptly. “He may come here. He may stay here. But if you harm him, I have no qualms about hurting you in many ways.”

He finally looked away from her, his lips curling. “You know nothing of pain.”

There was something in the way he said it that spoke of cruel experience.

Peggy rose, smoothing her trousers down.

Barnes didn’t even look at her as she walked away and closed the door.

In the corridor, she rubbed her eyes.

Perhaps Steve could put the pieces of Barnes back together, but if it was at the cost of falling apart himself, she honestly couldn’t say if it would be worth it. For him to help Barnes, he would have to know what his friend had been through, and if Barnes’ words were any indication, that was not anything she ever wanted Steve to know about.

But then, it wasn’t her choice.

If she tried to intervene, she would only put distance between herself and Steve at a time when he needed her help more than ever.

Her footsteps echoed back on her as she walked back up through the halls and into the main body of their building. 

They had a limited number of staff present, aside from the Howling Commandoes, who were doing daily rotations standing guard while Steve fed and tended their prisoner. It wasn’t that they didn’t trust Steve to handle himself. It was that Barnes was a loose cannon. Even shackled and restrained, there was a dangerous energy about him.

They would stand by, guns trained on him, while Steve fed him. He would glare blackly at one or the other, while completely ignoring Steve. The look on his face spoke of murderous intent, and not one of them wanted Steve to be left alone with him.

Sometimes, though, when he couldn’t sleep, that was where he would be found, sitting on the floor just inside the door of the cell. Barnes slept from time to time, and even if Steve was there, he didn’t acknowledge him, but Steve still went down there.

Before, he hadn’t slept because of nightmares.

Now, he didn’t sleep because reality was so much worse.

Stark was at the consoles, watching the cell, when she entered.

“Steve?”

“In your room,” Stark replied. “Did he say anything?”

“Barnes?” Peggy shook her head. “Nothing useful. He has no intention of being cooperative.”

Stark sat back in his chair. “At least we don’t need him for information.”

Peggy nodded silently. 

The tracking beacon they had on Stark’s files was on the far side of the world now, and the couriers who had made the mistake of being part of the chain had all been collected up and herded to Gubbins’ pen, squirreled away where no one could find them. 

Sooner or later, they would know where Karpov was, and if they did that, they might be able to find the means to undo what had been done to Barnes and reach the one responsible for all the blood and death laid before them.

It was a barely-tangible thread, but it was better than nothing.

“Have someone keep an eye on him,” she said. “I’m going to try and get Steve to get some rest.”

If Stark replied, she didn’t even notice.


	41. Mission

The map was spread on the wall, with another - close up and more detailed - pinned beside it.

A red pin jutted out from one of them.

Howard was sitting beneath the map at the head of the table. Only Dernier was absent. He was watching the consoles, while the rest of them were briefed on the latest developments. Rogers was rigid in his chair, a distracted look on his face. They all knew why.

He was still trying to get through to Barnes, but no one could tell if he was getting anywhere.

There had been a little progress when it came to the restraints: Barnes had been released from the jacket on condition of his good behaviour. He was being compliant. He would sit against the wall, two guns trained on him, and feed himself, then hand the dish and spoon back like he was civilised. He hadn't tried to kill himself again. He would stare at a point beyond Rogers' head and completely ignore him. 

When the cell was locked down, he would pace the length of the walls or sit facing the door, staring at it as if he could burn through it. He was always monitored, and if required, there were canisters of sedative gas that could be released into the cell.

Howard watched the monitors more than anyone. He wished he didn’t, but there was something reassuring about seeing the man locked up, knowing he wouldn’t and couldn’t come after them again. When he had the nightmares, it was a comfort to walk down to the console room and just look in and see him caged.

He knew Steve was doing the same thing, only he was doing it from inside the room.

Everyone was spending every moment of every day focussed on Barnes, or the man who had once been Barnes. They didn’t know if he was anymore, despite Rogers’ protestations, and they didn’t know if he ever could be again.

He was the reason for the briefing, more than anything else. They wanted to know what was done to him, and only one person could answer that: one person who had avoided them up until now. Howard had gone over the data several times, but it all said the same thing.

The tracker they sent out into enemy hands had finally come to a halt, and the news wasn’t good. If the man they were looking for was in the vicinity of the tracker, then they would have to look at moving on Leningrad. 

If that was where Karpov was, then that was where Barnes had been held. If that was the case, there was no power on God’s green earth that would stop Rogers going there and finding some way to fix his friend.

“My sources are currently pooling intelligence on the area where the tracker is currently fixed,” Carter said. She was as rigid and formal as she had ever been, back in the heady days of London. “If they can identify what kind of facility it has reached, we may know if that’s where Karpov can be found.”

“Even if it is,” Jones said, “what good’s that to us, Carter? It’s Leningrad. I mean, I know we went into enemy territory before.” He looked around the table. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I don’t want to be the reason the Cold War turns hot.”

Carter’s expression was unreadable as usual. “We wouldn’t be sending in a full strike force,” she said, straightening the paper in front of her. “A small hit squad would go in for a snatch, and be out in no time.”

“Pardon me for saying,” Montgomery said wryly, “but in case you hadn’t noticed, Russia is being quite security conscious at present. How do you propose to get this hit squad in and out without being captured?”

Howard knew the look in her eye. It was the same dangerous look Rogers sometimes got before he did something dumb and heroic. “That needn’t concern you,” she said. “We’ll need several of you here, keeping eyes on the prisoner.”

She hardly ever called him by name and Howard could guess why. If she called him by name, that meant acknowledging who he was and - more importantly - who he was to Rogers, but if the time came when the man did become dangerous again, it was easier to kill someone without acknowledging their name. 

“So what you’re saying is you’re going? You and the Cap?”

Carter levelled a look at Dugan. “What I’m saying is that the less you gentlemen know, the better.”

“Peggy,” Rogers said. He sounded exhausted. “No more. Just tell them, okay?”

A muscle in Carter’s cheek twitched. “Very well,” she said, her voice tight and controlled. “Yes. Steve and I will be going after Karpov. We will be leaving within the hour. We have associates already there who will be able to assist us, and the less you all know of the details, the better for the sake of national security. God knows we’re breaking a dozen international laws just considering this.”

Howard pressed his fingers to his eyelids. His eyes still itched from time to time, and it felt better to close them than to risk looking at Carter when he spoke. “You know this could pretty much be suicide if it goes wrong, right?”

“We have considered the variables.”

Howard lowered his hand. “And what then?” he asked. “What happens if you and Rogers don’t come back and we’re left with the thing that isn’t Barnes in the basement? What the hell are we meant to do with him?”

“You’re meant to protect him.” Rogers’ voice was little more than a growl. “He’s one of us, Stark, even if he doesn’t remember it. Even if we don’t make it, you keep him safe.” He shoved his chair back, rising. “I’m going down to see him before we leave.”

Carter rose. “Do you want someone else to…”

“No,” Rogers said quietly. “If I can’t hold him, no one else can.”

Silence fell over the room as he walked away, and only when the door closed did Carter turn her attention back to them. “So,” she said, “gentlemen. You heard the Captain. Sergeant Barnes will be left in your custody. Whatever happens beyond Leningrad remains to be seen.”

There were questions, and a lot of them, but Carter was sparing with her answers. The operation was going to be conducted as covertly as some of the earliest SSR missions, in the days before Howard got out of the lab. If anyone could make it a success, it was definitely Agent Carter, especially with the diamond-hard focus she had.

When the meeting finally dispersed, he waited until the Commandoes were gone before he approached her. “Carter.”

“Stark?” He was silent until she looked up at him, and he could see the furrows of exhaustion and impatience cut around her eyes and mouth. “Is there something you want?”

“I want you and Rogers to come back from this,” he said, wondering when he’d gone and gotten so damned sentimental. “We’ve lost too many good people, Carter. We can’t lose you as well.”

She rose from the chair, with all the regal haughtiness that had made him called her ‘your Majesty’ the first time he met her. She’d socked him in the gut for it then. He didn’t want to think what she might do now, standing on the knife-edge.

“I have no intention of being ‘lost’, Stark,” she said, “and I’d rather you didn’t express such rampant optimism around Steve, if you don’t mind. You rather dampen the mood.” She gathered up the files. “You ought to get back to your post.”

She swept from the room, leaving him feeling blistered by the ice in her tone. He exhaled unsteadily, then made his way back through the halls to the console room. Dernier glanced up, rising.

“You want me to stay?” he asked. “Or I can go and get briefed?”

“Go,” Stark replied. “Ask Jones. He can probably fill you in.” He sank down into the seat Denier had vacated, looking at the monitor.

It wasn’t a big surprise to see Steve sitting on the floor, just inside the cell. Barnes was sitting on the opposite side of the cell, his back to the wall. His feet were flat on the floor, and his forearms were propped on his upraised knees. Even through the hazy image, Howard could see the way the man’s hands were slowly curling and uncurling in silent threat.

He didn’t know how Steve could stand to be in the room with the man. But then, Steve didn’t know how anyone else could stand not to be. Howard had never had a friend like that, someone he would have protected the way Steve was watching out for Barnes. He wasn’t sure if he was sad about it, or just relieved.

He could see that Steve was speaking, even if he couldn’t hear what was being said. Steve often did that, just sat and chatted to Barnes, as if Barnes was listening. Sometimes, he would laugh and smile, as if telling an old, familiar story. Sometimes, he would get stone-faced. 

No one ever heard the stories he was telling, except Barnes. Maybe Barnes was listening, maybe he wasn’t. They couldn’t tell, because he never reacted, not once. He just sat there, staring into nothing, as if Steve wasn’t even present.

Howard sat back in the chair, running his hands over his eyes. If there was any justice in the world, they’d find a way to help Barnes, and all of them would get through it, but years of experience told him the world was a bastard who just made things worse.

He lowered his hands and looked at the screen again, watching Rogers get up. He looked older now, a lot older than he ever had, and tired. He stood where he was for a moment, then - to Howard’s horror - approached Barnes.

They weren’t meant to approach Barnes, not unless there were armed guards with their guns out and trained on him. He was unpredictable, and everything about his body language said he was willing to maim and kill. 

Howard looked towards Barnes, his heart racing. He knew he should press the alarm, get people down to the cell, but Barnes… Barnes wasn’t moving at all. Barnes was pressing back against the wall, as if he was trying to retreat.

Howard’s hand hovered over the alarm button, as he watched as Rogers slowly crouch down in front of Barnes. He was moving like his friend was a skittish animal, slow and steady, and he reached up to his own neck, withdrawing something.

The dog tags, Howard remembered. The son of a gun had Barnes’ dog tags. Rogers’d been wearing them ever since Switzerland, and now, now, he was taking them off to give them to their rightful owner.

Barnes was rigid, staring beyond him. He didn’t even resist when Rogers wrapped a hand around his flesh and blood wrist, turning his hand over. Rogers pressed the dog tags into Barnes’ palm, curling Barnes’ fingers over them. 

When Barnes didn’t react, Rogers lifted his empty hand to cup the back of his friend’s head, as if the man wasn’t a killing machine. He said something inaudible, and pressed his brow briefly to Barnes’ crown. 

Howard had to look away. It was something too personal, something he wasn’t meant to be seeing. When he looked back, Steve was walking from the cell. He didn’t look back, and he closed the door behind him. 

Howard found his eyes drawn back to Barnes. 

The man was still sitting, motionless against the wall. Slowly, he unfolded his hand. Howard could see him turning his head to look down at the dog tags resting in his palm. He stared at then for a long while, then suddenly lifted the chain and put them around his neck. His hand closed around them, clutching them like a penitent would clutch a crucifix.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Howard whispered. “You’re still in there, Barnes.”


	42. Cracks

The metal discs were warm against the Winter Soldier's skin. He could feel the edges cutting into his palm. They should have been cold, but instead, they carried the warmth of the man who had borne them, warmth he had laid in the Winter Soldier's hand before he walked away.

The Winter Soldier was perplexed. Conflicted. 

Captain America was his target. The uniform, the shield, the image. Steve Rogers was not Captain America. Captain America was a costume, the Winter Soldier could see that now. 

The man who came to the cell, who spoke to him like a man, who looked happy and sad by degrees, was not Captain America. He was someone else, someone who indicated that he knew the Winter Soldier by another name.

James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Bucky Barnes. 

His thumb skimmed along the tags. He could feel the texture of letters imprinted in the surface. A mortality tag, carried by soldiers in case they fell. He had not had any of his own. He had not required any.

The metal felt familiar against his fingers, the stroke of flesh to steel. It felt habitual, a routine, something he knew well. An echo of a memory.

Sergeant Barnes. 32557038.

He could remember those words echoing over and over again. He shaped them in his mouth, said them out loud. They tasted like blood, and awoke memories of cold metal and straps and pain and... and... and...

Steve. Steve leaning over him. Steve pulling him free. Steve being taller?

He wrapped his hands around the tags, squeezing them until they cut into his skin. His blood was hot between his fingers.

He didn't know when the man had become Steve to him, but he was Steve now. He was not Captain America. He was not the target. He was... still just a kid from Brooklyn who was too dumb to know when to give up. 

The Winter Soldier opened his hand. The metal tags were red with blood.

They were a farewell gesture and a reminder. Steve Rogers was going on a mission, and he wanted to leave the Winter Soldier - no, Bucky Barnes - something to remember him by. It felt like a collar, a chain, something to mark him as another’s possession.

He brought his hand closer, smearing the blood away with his thumb.

The Winter Soldier had complete control of his body, but in that moment, his breath left him. His hand shook. He stared at the words, the name that Steve Rogers attributed to him. The tags were not Steve Rogers’.

Sergeant James Barnes. 32557038.

They were not meant as a chain for him. They were not meant to subdue him. They were not meant to mark him as Rogers’ captive and possession.

Somewhere in his mind, something screamed “Mine!” Before he could consider the ramifications of his actions, he looped the chain over his head. The tags fell against his breast and it felt right. He closed his hand over them, and it felt right. They were his. It felt _right_.

He held them there, held them tight, and tried to remember when they had come into his hands. The memories were fleeting, like sand slipping between his fingers, and his breath was coming too fast, ragged and raw.

No control. Pathetic. Of no use.

He clamped his metal hand to his ear. His mind felt scattered. He could hear the words of the handlers, commands, orders, observations, cold and clinical and dismissive, and he squeezed the tags tighter.

For days now, he had ignored Rogers. His intention was to divert Captain America from his cause, and if ignoring him served that purpose, that was what he would do. 

But the man still spoke to him, as if they were friends, and some of those words had to be tangled in the morass of confusing information. Data. He was trained to recollect data, and Steve Rogers’ words were data for him. 

True or not, the words had been given, which meant they were there. They had not been taken from him or wiped or collated by his handlers. He clawed desperately through his mind for them, for any glimpse of what they were.

He pressed the knuckles of both hands to his temples. His head ached, and the knowledge was there, just out of his reach. 

It was like being bound again, strapped down and helpless, and seeing a doorway that was the way he needed to go. The doorway. God, he remembered that doorway. He remembered staring at it, the first time they took him down there, when they closed the door. Dragged him. Beaten bloody and dragged, and they hardly needed to strap him down. Weak as a fucking kitten, even when they started with the needles.

For a split-second, he felt hands on his skin, felt the needles, saw the man bent over him, the man who died at his feet, gasping and choking.

He cursed explosively, scrambling upright, panting. 

The wall was cold at his back and he pressed back against it, his fingertips grinding against his head.

Christ. 

Jesus Christ.

The door of the cell opened, this new cage, and he whirled around, hands dropping down to clench in fists.

Two men.

Guns.

“Stand down, soldier.”

The Winter Soldier’s chest felt tight, rising and falling with each burning breath. He stared at them, curling and uncurling his hands. Enemies, his mind said. Friends, his mind said. Kill. Save. Help them. Help. Help me. Help me. Help me.

He spun away from them, slamming both fists against the wall.

“Get out!” he roared. Russian? English? American? He didn’t know. Couldn’t tell. “Get the fuck out!”

They slammed the door as they left, and the sound echoed. 

The Winter Soldier pressed his forehead to the wall between his clenched fists. It would be so easy to beat the memories away, to welcome silence and pain and nothing else. That was protocol. Those were the orders. That was what the Winter Soldier would have done. That was not what Bucky fucking Barnes was ever going to do again.

Control. Control. He’d had it for years. Now was a hell of a time to lose it. They’d trained him. They’d made him efficient. They’d taught him how to be calm and quiet and breathe, and god, he needed that now. He needed it, so he could stop and fucking think.

He fell - or sank - to his knees, his fists sliding down the wall, and he knelt there, head hanging, and tried to remember.

It had been instinct for so long, when memories were irrelevant and emotions didn’t make his heart race. When he didn’t know or care what fear was. Instinct. It was still in there somewhere with all the other crap they’d pushed in.

He pressed his eyes shut, beating his fists against the wall, and tried to breathe. Jesus Christ it was just breathing. Why was it so fucking hard? Why was his breath pulling tight in his chest? Why was he folding down tighter and smaller? Why was he remembering the goddamned needles and the straps and screaming? 

All he had to do was breathe. That was all he had to do.

He choked on a ragged sob, folded down over his knees, and his brow knocked against the wall again and it was cold and his tears were hot and he was crying like a fucking child because he couldn’t fucking breathe.


	43. Undercover

Winter was hard in Russia.

It was also a mixed blessing, because no one paid too much attention to how big someone was when they were bundled up in thick, fur-lined coats. It was easier to pass for someone local when a hat was pulled down around his ears and a coat covered him from neck to ankle.

Steve wasn’t good at covert work. He and Peggy both knew it, which was why she was doing all the talking, while he was being the eyes.

Her contacts had provided them with paperwork in Geneva, and from there, they flew East in commercial planes under their new aliases. He didn’t know how she got them across the border without any questions, but he suspected that their bags were lighter by a thick wad of bills. They were in her territory now, and watching her work both awed and terrified him.

They had acquired transport on a creaking steam train to reach Leningrad, but there was no privacy to talk or even to drop their covers for a moment. He spent the journey looking out of the window, trying not to think of the man he’d left behind.

Bucky - if anything was left of him - was in a bad way. Every time Steve had gone into the cell, he’d held out a hope that some spark of Bucky would show through, but every time, Bucky’s eyes fixed on the wall and he never once spoke to Steve. The only time he had, he was cursing in Russian, and Steve didn’t know what he was saying.

If they found Karpov, and if the man was able to give them the information they needed to set Bucky’s mind back on the right lines, he only hoped it would be enough. He hated to think about the alternative, even if he knew Peggy thought about it all the time.

She’d become colder, harder, sharper, since Phillips’ death. He wasn’t surprised by it, because she always was a direct person, and in her eyes, Bucky was now the enemy. If someone was Peggy Carter’s enemy, they didn’t usually live long enough to tell anyone about it.

If she had to, she would kill Bucky, and knowing that hurt. Even if it was a mercy, to release him out of whatever hell his handlers had trapped him in, it was still Bucky and it was still Peggy, and all Steve’d ever wanted was to have both of them with him. They weren’t meant to kill each other. 

They had to find Karpov. They had to get the answers and find some way to pull Bucky back to himself.

It was night when they reached the city. There was a safe house set aside for them, arranged by Peggy’s contacts from her old units. They were breaking hundreds of laws already. Staying in a house owned by British spies working in the Soviet Union wasn’t even the worst of them.

Peggy scanned the room with one of Stark’s devices before they even said a word. A bug was disconnected, and it didn’t matter if it was enemy or allied. The last thing they needed was anyone listening in on their plans.

He sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. “Do we have a signal?”

Peggy was gazing at a small console in her hand. “Clear and strong,” she said. “We can find the building tomorrow.” She set the console down and removed her overcoat. “We should both get some rest.”

The bed was narrow and uncomfortable, but she curled in front of him, letting him wrap himself around her, and borrow from her warmth. She knew him too well, the way the cold numbed him, the way his nightmares affected him. Her hand covered his over her waist, her fingers cool but her palm warm, and she held him there.

“It’ll all be over soon, Steve,” she murmured. 

He buried his face in her hair. That, he knew, was what he was afraid of: they would have all the answers or none at all, and that would be the end of it. They would have to go back with the knowledge of whether Bucky could or couldn’t be saved.

“I know,” he whispered.

He didn’t know if she slept at all. He barely got a couple of hours, woken by the bone-deep chill that made his limbs ache. He didn’t have any right to complain, he knew, as he pulled his boots and coat back on and chaffed his hands together. It was only cold. They had far bigger concerns than that to deal with.

Leningrad wasn’t a welcoming place, and the bleakness of winter made it worse.

The building they were looking for was part of a sprawling industrial complex of buildings that all looked identical. Grim, uniformed walls sprang up on all sides, thick with rust-rimed pipes. The air was heavy with smoke and dirt.

It wasn't a good place to try and look furtive. Peggy told Steve as much as they walked briskly through the complex, never breaking stride. If they stopped to look around, people would notice. If they paid too much attention to anything, people would notice. If they tried to watch people too closely, people would notice.

They passed the building in question without stopping, even though Steve wanted to stride straight up to the door. Peggy was right. That wasn’t how the game was played here. They had to go in unseen and take what they needed.

That night, he sketched the building in as much detail as he could manage, comparing it to the older photographs that her contacts had provided. According to intelligence they had received, the building was a minor science division, and from the look of the new security features, they were protecting something.

Peggy laid the blanket around his shoulders as he sketched. He raised his eyes to her with a brief, grateful smile. She settled in the other chair, just as rickety as his own, drawing one foot up beneath her body.

“It’s the right place,” she said. “A development facility.”

“But he may not be there,” he finished for her. “I know.”

She covered her hand with his. “We’ll find out,” she said. “We have time enough.” Her fingers tightened on his. “If you can stay here tomorrow, I’ll start making overtures, see what I can find out more directly.”

He looked at her, startled. “Peggy…”

“It’s dangerous, I know,” she said with a quiet, lop-sided smile. “I was trained for this, Steve. I was doing this before you even got your first pay cheque.” She lifted his hand and gently kissed his knuckles. “I’ve been quite useless otherwise. I can do this. For you and for Barnes.”

He stared at her, then turned his hand, cupping her cheek. “You haven’t been useless,” he said. “Not at all.”

She turned her head into his touch. “Sometimes, it feels that way,” she murmured. “You know I like to be active.” Her fingers moved lightly down the back of his hand. “Give me a few days, and I’ll have the information you need.”

It didn’t feel like the best plan, but it was the only plan they really had. He knew he wasn’t good enough at covert operations to go unnoticed and she knew it too.

The next morning, she left him with a kiss and a blanket that was still warm. He stayed there, closed in the four walls with nothing but their files to go through and blank paper to fill with drawings and sketches, something he hadn’t done in a long while. 

Half the sheets were filled by the time she returned that night, sketches of her, of Bucky, of Stark, of Phillips, of the Commandoes. She didn’t say a word, just laying her hand on his shoulder, and he knew she hadn’t found anything useful.

The next day was the same, and the next. He knew every inch of the walls of the apartment. He had paced every part of the floor. He slept when he could, and wrapped himself in all the blankets and furs they had when he couldn’t.

On the fourth day, she opened the door.

“Get your coat and bring all the files,” she said quietly.

He rose from the table and turned, and swore out loud. Her lip was split and there was a bruise darkening her cheek. “Peggy, what happened?”

She smiled grimly. “I found our friend,” she said. “Now, if you don’t mind, Captain, I would rather like to get back to him before he tries to wriggle free.”

She led him down to the street and to a car that was waiting there. Children were crowded around it, staring and touching it, but scattered at the sight of her. She slid into the driver’s seat and Steve took the passenger seat.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, as they pulled out onto the road.

She glanced back, and that was when he heard the muffled thumping from the trunk. “I played driver for our new friend,” she said. “Someone should really have a word with his people about handing over the keys of their employer’s car to strange women, even if they are in the appropriate uniform.”

Steve shook his head, awed. “God, you’re spectacular.”

He saw the way the colour crept up her cheeks, the way she drew herself up, the way her mouth curved in that warm smile he was lucky enough to see from time to time. “Thank you, Captain,” she said. 

He didn’t bother to ask her where they were going. She had a destination in mind, and when she pulled up outside of the city as a factory that looked like it had been forgotten for decades, he wasn’t surprised. Abducting someone in broad daylight in Leningrad took planning and forethought and nerves of steel.

She drove them into the body of the factory, pulling up in a large chamber lined with machinery and broken pipes. The windows were cracked and broken, ice frosting the edges, and shallow drifts of snow lay at places where the ceiling had fallen in.

“If you would be so kind, Captain,” she said, “I’ve prepared a chair for our guest.”

By chair, she meant little more than a tangle of broken machinery, and by guest, she meant the bloodied, struggling figure of General Vasily Karpov. The man had a lump on his head, a gag around his mouth, and he was pinioned thoroughly at upper arm, elbow, forearm, wrist, thigh, knee, calf and ankle.

Steve half-carried, half-dragged him over to the machinery, slamming him down with force enough to drive the breath from the man’s chest. Karpov’s eyes fixed on his face, and Steve could see the recognition, the flicker of panic as he took in his surroundings, and then the steel wall of a soldier.

Peggy secured the man’s wrists behind him. He didn’t struggle, returning his gaze to Steve, and waiting until she removed the gag from his mouth.

“So you do live,” Karpov rasped. “They are saying you live. I wonder if they have just put some other fool in your uniform. Very convenient, Rogers, to come back now.”

Steve looked down at the man with disgust. “You know why I had to.”

Karpov’s smile was placid. “Little soldier fighting in wars he doesn’t understand.”

Steve wasn’t a man to lose his temper, but he backhanded Karpov so hard the man’s head jerked around. Karpov chuckled wetly, spitting blood. “You know why I’m here, Karpov,” he said quietly. “You know what I want to know.”

Karpov’s dark eyes were gleaming with amused malevolence. “And if I tell you what you are wanting to hear, you will let me go? Your little bitch will untie me and I will walk away like nothing is happened?”

Steve hit him again before he could stop himself. Karpov’s teeth clattered together. “If you want to get through this intact,” Steve snarled, “you’ll keep a civil tongue in your head.”

Karpov dragged his chin against his shoulder, smearing away the blood. “I am not walking away from this,” he said coldly. “You know this. I know this. Why should I tell you anything, when I am going to die?”

Steve smiled at him. “You know who I am,” he said. “You know I don’t kill people who are tied down. You know I don’t torture people. That’s your job.”

Karpov studied him. “You are not the same man, I think, Captain Rogers,” he said. “You are more… angry. This is correct, yes?” He smiled. “Maybe, you did not kill but now, I can see that you want to. You want to hurt me. To kill me. What, I wonder, have I done?” His teeth were yellowed when he smiled. “Or who, should I say?”

Peggy’s hand was light on Steve’s arm, the only thing to keep him from hitting Karpov again.

“Sergeant Barnes,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. “What did you do to him?”

Karpov looked blandly back at him. “Why should I tell you? You beat me already. You wish me dead. I tell you what you want, and you are happy. Why would I do this?”

Steve let Peggy draw him back. She approached Karpov, laying one hand on his shoulder, and spoke quietly and calmly to him in Russian. Karpov retorted shortly, and all at once, there was a knife in Peggy’s hand and Karpov’s shirt and jacket were cut open, baring his chest.

“Exposure,” she observed, “can be quite painful. Would you like me to see how long you last if I strip you bare and leave you tied to the pipes?”

“You think I am afraid of suffering?” Karpov sneered.

She smiled at him, sweetly, mildly. “Not yet.”

“And if I tell you, you will say what your American pet says?” he snorted. “You will say I am free to go, alive and well?”

“Well, perhaps not dead,” she murmured. “It all depends on what you tell us.”

“So you will torture me? And then not kill me? Such kindness, such mercy.”

Her hand wrapped around his throat. “We won’t do those things,” she murmured. “A little exposure. A slight chill. Not enough to maim, of course, but certainly enough to make you look like a hero because we wouldn’t want anyone to think you got off easily.” She bent close and her voice was so low Steve could barely hear it. “And then, perhaps a word in the ear of one of those lovely little traitors you have scattered in England. Why did he get away so easily, they’ll wonder. Perhaps he was working with them after all.” Her hand tightened at his throat. “I’m sure there would be plenty of people who would like to see the back of you here, hm? Lukin, perhaps. Or even higher than that.”

Steve could see Karpov’s nostrils flaring, his hands twisting into fists. “You have them, then? Our contacts?”

“Oh, you silly little man,” Peggy murmured. “We’ve had them in our hands for months. How do you think we found you? All so keen to get your hands on our secrets that you killed and maimed and didn’t stop to think we might be giving you exactly what we wanted.”

He looked up at her with such loathing that Steve stepped forward, almost certain the man would break free of his restraints. When Karpov spoke, his voice was thick with anger, and he spoke in Russian. Steve didn’t need to know what he was saying to understand the gist.

“Your choice,” Peggy said, once he trailed off into panting, seething silence. “Tell us, or we have our people tell other people and you find out just how friendly your so-called friends really are.”

“You bluff.”

She stepped in front of him and leaned down to look him in the eyes. “Try me.”

Karpov looked from her to Steve and back. Steve could see the indecision and the anger, but the fear was there as well. Peggy must have hit a nerve or two, and if he couldn’t trust his allies, then what choice did he really have? Soviet mercy was not a gentle thing. 

“You have come too late,” he spat out. His teeth were still stained red with his own blood. “If you come for answers for your friend, it is too late. What is done cannot be undone. The ones who made him as he is are dead. They died the moment he fell into your hands. He is of no use to anyone.”

Steve felt like the bottom had dropped out of his world. “What was done can be undone,” he said. “It has to be.”

Karpov laughed hoarsely. “The people who have made him into a weapon, they are dead, Captain. We do not have our weapon anymore. We do not need the people to fix it.” He looked up. “He is useless now. As long as you have him, he will spend his life in a cage.”

“You’re lying.”

Karpov shook his head slowly. “Why would I lie?” he asked. He bared his teeth. “If you are the man you pretend to be, you will take your gun and you will shoot him. If you do not, he will kill you.” He grinned. “He is good soldier. He always obeys his orders.”

Steve hit him again. It knocked the man back against the metal. He hit him again and again, and he couldn’t stop himself. This was the man who had taken Bucky, good, decent Bucky, and turned him into a weapon, had turned him against his friends, had destroyed him, and now, said there was no way to fix him or bring him back.

Peggy caught his arm, pulled at him, drawing him back. His hands were wet with blood and Karpov was limp and gasping when Steve staggered away. He turned his back on the man, breathing hard, trying to gather himself. 

Karpov chuckled wetly.

“Such a good man,” he whispered through shattered teeth. “Like your friend. A killer.”

A gunshot rang out behind Steve, echoing off the walls. Somewhere high above, startled birds took wing from the rafters.

Steve turned around to see Karpov slumped down, a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead, his body slack.

Peggy lowered her gun, her expression unreadable. 

“We should go,” she said. “We’re finished here.”


	44. Chills

Peggy was focussed on the road.

Steve was in the passenger seat, and from the corner of her eye, she could see him wiping Karpov's blood from his hands. He hadn't said a word since she shot the man, and she had no idea what he was thinking, for good or ill. He'd just followed her to the car without looking back, and they drove, leaving Karpov behind.

They were halfway between the city and the factory when he finally spoke. "He was lying."

"Yes," she replied. She glanced at him. "He would never have told you."

Steve nodded grimly. He looked down at his hands, clenched into fists in his lap. "I would have killed him," he said. "I wanted to."

"I know," Peggy said. That was why she'd touched his arm, drawn him back long enough to let him breathe, and taken the shot herself. Steve wasn't a vengeful killer, and she wasn't about to let a sadistic, manipulative bastard turn him into one.

She reached blindly across and found one of his hands, closing her fingers around it. He was cold, and she knew what that could mean. They had to find some kind of shelter, somewhere with heat.

"We'll have to get rid of the car," she said. "The safehouse is probably compromised. I shouldn't have brought the car there."

“Is there another?”

Peggy shook her head. “Unfortunately not,” she said. “We may be able to find a hotel, but that would only last as long as we weren’t noticed and we had the funds.”

There was no question about leaving, not when Karpov had lied to them. Even if it wasn’t for Barnes’ sake, Peggy knew she would stay as long as it took for Steve’s sake. He had to know once and for all whether there was anything they could do.

They left the car in one of the wealthier areas, where its presence would not be questioned, and returned to the heart of the city on the trams. Peggy kept her arm tucked through Steve’s and could feel the tremors running through him. He was too cold, already, even wrapped in the thick coat and hat.

If they’d had more time, she knew she would have scoped out more options, but her first priority had to be Steve’s well-being. She had explored parts of the city, and she led him directly to the first hotel she had seen. 

Perhaps it had been grandiose once, but now, it was treated with the same casual disregard as many of the older, more refined buildings. It wasn’t Soviet enough for the people anymore, so they left it to crumble at the edges.

She spoke to the clerk at the desk, grateful that she had paid close attention to her Governess’ lessons on accents and dialects. After all, one didn’t want to be driven out for speaking with the cut-glass tones of the former ruling classes. 

A room was given for a reasonable fee. Their false papers were given a only a cursory look for a slightly larger fee tucked between the pages. 

The key was cold and heavy, and there was no promise of a fire, but it was shelter from the biting chill of the wind. They walked through corridors heavy with fading splendour, saying nothing until they were in the room. The walls, after all, likely had ears. Hotels were always infamous for liaisons of all kind: political, sexual, treasonous, or all three.

The room was basic, with a bed and a small chest of drawers. There was a water pitcher and jug, but the fireplace was empty, and only a gas lamp stood on the top of the drawers. The curtains, though, were thick enough to keep out the chill. 

As soon as Peggy closed the door, she started chatting to him lightly in Russian, nodding for him to make appropriate sounds in response, as she took out Stark’s scanner and checked the room for bugs. There were two: one in the overhead light and one hidden behind the mirror. Most people would only think to look for one.

She detached each of them, then handed them down to Steve. He wrapped each of them in a thick layer of woollen socks, then tucked them into the bottom of the lowest drawer. Only then did she switch back to English.

“That should be enough,” she said, stepping down from the bed. She approached Steve, slipping beneath his coat and wrapping her arms around him. “Enough?”

His arms were around her in a heartbeat. “No,” he said. There was no need for lies or pretence or false bravery anymore. They had seen too much, both together and apart, and now they stood with the blood of their enemy still staining their clothes, in a hostile city, alone but for one another.

Wordlessly, she divested him of the thick coat and shoes, and pushed him beneath the covers on the bed. The blankets were thick, two layers of them over sheets, and she wrapped herself around him, arms and legs covering as much of him as she could, one hand curling through his hair, his face buried in her shoulder.

Gradually, the shivers subsided, and he was still in her embrace.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, his lips moving against her throat so lightly she could barely feel them. 

“For what?” she asked, her own voice just as soft. Her fingers were still smoothing through his hair, habit now.

“Doing what I couldn’t.”

Peggy tightened her arms around him, pressing her cheek to his hair. He was so warm and solid and strong in her embrace, but sometimes, she knew she had to be the strong one, to do the things he shouldn’t and couldn’t do. 

“I wouldn’t have him turn you into a weapon,” she whispered fiercely. “He did that to Barnes. I couldn’t let him do it to you too.”

He lifted his head to look down at her. “But he did it to you,” he said, and she could see the grief in his eyes.

Peggy touched his cheek gently. “He did nothing,” she said. “I did what I have been trained for. I came with you to protect you, Steve. I protected you from yourself, and from him in the same moment.” Her thumb traced his cheekbone. “You’re the shield. I’m the blade. Sometimes, I have to be bloodied.”

He turned his cheek into her touch. “This was my mission,” he said quietly.

“Ours,” she corrected. “To have and to hold, for better for worse, in sickness and in Soviet Russia.” He laughed helplessly, and she couldn’t help smiling in return, briefly. “I can’t promise we can stay long, but we have a few more days at least, if we’re careful. We can try and find the people who worked with Barnes.”

“If we’re careful,” he said, mouth turning in a wry smile. “After the day we’ve just had?”

She smoothed his hair back from his brow. “Only a split lip and a bruised cheek,” she said. 

“And a stolen car, and the abducted and killed Soviet official,” he added. “Nothing serious.”

She shook her head, smiling briefly. “Sometimes, I forget you weren’t in the Special Air Services,” she said. She pushed him onto his back. “Now, get some rest, and get warm. I’ll have a look through our notes.”

She could feel his eyes on her as she fetched the files from the top of the chest of drawers. He had a single-minded focus when he wanted to, and she remembered the intensity of that look, whenever they had been in combat. Sometimes, she was astonished she hadn’t burnt to a cinder in the heat of it.

The thought warmed her, and she looked back over her shoulder.

“I’m still cold, Peggy,” he said, watching her.

She recognised that tone in his voice, and it sent a pleasant shiver down her spine. She should have anticipated it. Steve Rogers thrived in a state of danger, and where could be more dangerous than where they were right now? If they were captured, if they had been seen, if they were suspected…

“Is that so, Captain?” she said, tapping the edge of the file against her hand. “What would you recommend?”

There was a gleam in his blue eyes that she had missed. “Well, I remember a respectable lady telling me it was important to keep my circulation going.”

She set the files back down on the chest of drawers. “I see,” she said. “And I suppose this respectable lady should help you?”

He wordlessly pushed the blanket back in invitation.


	45. Captive

Carter and Rogers had vanished.

A coded message came in from London five days after they left, and Montgomery brought it to Howard, his expression grim. Howard put on his glasses, squinting at the page, and felt his heart sinking.

Safe house abandoned. Vasily Karpov found dead. KGB known to have documents.

He didn’t know for sure who had sent the information, but Carter had warned him about her ties to the British secret services. He could only imagine that the people who’d provided her with information were also trying to keep one eye on them.

Or off them, as the case now was.

It wasn’t a good sign, especially since they’d gone in without any support or back-up. They’d only taken the most basic of equipment, at least by his standards, and he hadn’t had time to put together trackers for one, let alone both of them. 

It wasn’t just concern for his friends anymore, either. If Captain America and a British agent were caught undercover in Leningrad, it could turn into full-scale international war, and that was the last thing Carter or Rogers would have wanted.

He had to trust that they were keeping out of sight and out of mind, but it wasn’t easy. He scoured any news reports he could find - fewer than ever - and every day, a new message would come through on the coded channels.

Each day they were missing was good and bad. Good because they had evaded capture and hadn’t been plastered all over the news sheets. Bad because if their documents were still being held onto, then there was no way for them to get out of the country, and if they were trapped there, they were being hunted, like fish in a large Russian barrel. 

On top of those concerns, Howard was stuck on baby-sitting duty for a brainwashed Soviet assassin who was currently going nuts down in the basement. 

Ever since Rogers and Carter left, Barnes had become even more erratic. Howard had watched him on the monitors, screaming and cursing and beating at the walls like he had a grudge against them for days. The commandoes had stopped going into the room at all. They just slid a bowl of food in to him three times a day and left him there.

Then he’d gone quiet, and Stark didn’t know if that was worse. 

When he’d come back to the monitor one morning, Barnes was on his side in the corner of the room, motionless. He was curled in a ball, his eyes open, and didn’t move for almost four hours, apart from blinking. 

He hadn’t even moved when Dugan ventured into the room with his usual bowl. The bowl was still full when Morita went to deliver the next meal, hours later. 

Barnes didn’t even acknowledge them. He wasn’t catatonic, or at least not yet. He just sat or lay, his flesh hand wrapped around the tags at his neck. Once a day, he would pick at the bowl that had been left for him, but the rest were ignored.

The last thing they needed was for Barnes to starve himself to death before Rogers could make it out of Russia.

He got the Commandoes to go in and put the bowl right in front of Barnes. If ordered, he would pick at the food, but he was staring beyond them, his mind a million miles away, and he never finished a full bowl. 

Howard was a goddamned engineer. He wasn’t the kind of person who was good at looking after people. He was good with machines. He was good with cogs and gears and things that didn’t need to be fed and watered and cared for. He really, really wasn’t good at trying to give a damn about a man who had murdered his friends. 

Trouble was that Rogers trusted him. Earning Steve Rogers’ trust was kind of like getting a Medal of Honour, and it wasn’t something you wanted to give up easily, even if you had to do something that scared the crap out of you.

That was why he went down to the room where Barnes was being held, carrying a bowl of stew. He by-passed all the security, and walked into the cell without anyone to back him up. If Barnes was going to hurt anyone, it would be him. If he was going to do something stupid, he was going to make damned sure no one was there to see it.

Barnes was sitting in the far side of the cell, backed right up into the corner. His elbows were propped on his upraised knees, his left arm - and metal hand - folded over his head as if he was trying to block out the light. His right hand was still curled against his chest.

Howard’s heart was pounding so hard he could feel it against his ribs.

“Barnes,” he said, and his voice betrayed him by breaking. 

Barnes didn’t move.

Howard licked his dry lips and walked stiffly to the bunk. It was closer to the door, so he could run if he had to, but right now, his legs didn’t want to hold him up. He could remember dizziness from the lab and the taste of blood in his mouth was stronger than ever.

“You need to eat,” he said, remembering the way his mother spoke to him while he doodled designs in the margins of his books at the table. “I told Rogers I’d keep you alive if I have to force the food down your throat myself.”

He could see the metal hand flexing, curling, dark strands of Barnes’ tangled hair slipping between the fingers. He remembered how cold that hand was, the way it pressed to his face, silencing him. God, being sick wasn’t going to help anyone.

He bowed his head, taking a breath, trying to get his nerve back. 

“I know you.”

Barnes’ rasping voice made his head snap up so fast, he heard something click in his neck. The man had lowered his metal arm just enough so Howard could see his eyes, gleaming, half-shadowed by his brows and his tangled hair. 

“Uh. Yeah.” Every damned word he knew seemed to have slipped his mind.

Barnes breathed in and out slowly. “You weren’t meant to be there.”

Howard wanted to run for the door. If the only thing the man could remember was when he’d almost killed Howard, then Howard definitely didn’t want to be in the same room as him, but Barnes was watching him and he couldn’t move. His legs felt like lead.

“I told Rogers I’d keep you alive,” he said unsteadily. “You have to eat.”

Dark eyes watched him, unreadable. “Stark. Howard,” Barnes said slowly. “Technician. Engineer. Stark Industries. Expo. 1943.” The dark brows drew downwards. “SSR.” His hands unfolded, pushing into his hair. “Stark. Howard. Affiliations: SSR. Manhattan Project. Captain America. US armed forces - questionable.” His voice got lower, repeating words as if reading from a record by rote, his fingers buried in his hair. 

Howard stared at him, then slowly got up. He felt like his legs might give way beneath him at any moment as he cautiously approached Barnes, holding out the bowl of food in his shaking hand. Barnes didn’t even look at him, and Howard crouched down to set the bowl close enough for him to take it.

Barnes’ arm shot out suddenly, cold metal wrapping around Howard’s wrist. Howard bit down a scream and felt wet heat in his pants.

Barnes’ face was close to his. “Your car,” he growled. “It flew.”

“Y-yes,” Howard gasped out, piss pooling at his feet. That was a lifetime ago, another world, another time. 

Barnes stared at him, then released his wrist. “Affiliation,” he said again, “Captain America. Steven Grant Rogers.”

Howard nodded mutely. His feet were wet and he didn’t know if he should run or stay. “He wants you to eat,” he finally forced out. “Steve Rogers. If he comes back, he’ll want to know you’re okay.”

Barnes picked up the bowl, never taking his eyes off Howard, and started to eat the stew with his fingers. The grease slicked his hand, dripping onto the suit he was still wearing. He kept on staring even as Howard backed towards the door.

Jones was standing in the doorway, hand lightly resting on the gun at his hip. “What the hell, Stark?” he said, when the door was closed. “You want to get yourself killed?”

Howard leaned unsteadily against the wall. “I had to do something,” he said. He looked down at his soaked trousers, then back at Jones. “Don’t let me do that again.”

Gabe Jones offered him an arm. “You need a drink?”

Howard nodded, taking a gulping breath. “Hell yes.”


	46. Escape

If he comes back. If. If he comes back. If he comes back. If.

The words felt like a mantra, an oath, something recited to a portrait on a wall. 

The Winter Soldier's hand was wrapped around the tags again. 

There was comfort in the sensation, bring back echoes of a childhood, a scrubbed neck and his best clothes laid out for him to look respectable. He could remember the scent of candles and hymn books and peppermints from a tin.

Church, he knew. Sundays and special occasions. It wasn't about faith. It wasn't belief. It was about whispers and a place between their mothers' feet, where he and Steve played tic-tac-toe while the Priest spoke. 

God didn't mean much to two kids then. God didn't mean much to a man now.

A crucifix had been replaced with bloodied dog tags, the Almighty who didn't step in replaced with the man who did. The Winter Soldier wouldn't believe in a God like that, but he could believe in a man who said 'Follow me'.

He bowed his head over his hand, pressing his brow to his knuckles.

If he came back. 

That was what Stark had said. Stark. Howard Stark. One of his captors. One of his friends. One of his enemies. He knew the man's face from a dozen places, but the images overlapped: smiling showman, focussed scientist, or gasping victim. 

He was affiliated with Steve Rogers now. 

The Winter Soldier was too.

Comrades at arms. Allies. 

The other men, the soldiers, the gunmen, were part of the same group. He glanced at them once in a while, trying to put a face to a name or vice versa. They came with two: the names of birth and the names of brothers.

Dumdum. Jimbo. Monty. Gabe. Lastman.

He could remember them fighting. Side by side with him? Against him? Both? Neither? The look in their eyes said hostile. They held guns on him. They were the ones who drugged him in his final battle with Captain America. Enemies or friends or something between?

They didn’t speak to him when they brought him food. They didn’t sit like Stark did. They didn’t stay like Steve did. They were soldiers. Efficient. Effective. Wary. And uneasy about something that was beyond the four walls.

The Winter Soldier could not read emotions, but some part of him recognised that his guards were unhappy.

Finally, he spoke to them, asking one question. “Did he come back?”

That made them stare the first time, but the answer was the same. With each bowl of food, with each security check at the door, with every repetition of the question, the answer was exactly the same: “Not yet.”

Not yet.

If.

Not yet. If. Not yet. If.

The Winter Soldier took to pacing his cell again.

Not yet. If. If. If. If.

If was not a good word. Too many negative meanings. If meant there was a possibility that Steve would not return, and that concept was something vast and alien and terrifying in a world where Steve Rogers had become a fixed point, a lens bringing everything into focus.

The Winter Soldier walked the walls of his room, corner to corner and back, staring blindly.

If.

Not yet.

Stark said if.

The men said not yet.

Yet was positive. Yet indicated hope of an outcome, but the way the men said it was not a positive tone. Each time was said sharply, more curt and abrupt than before. Not yet was becoming if in his ears, and the men who were meant to protect Steve, his back-up, his goddamned wingmen were all over here, keeping him locked in a fucking cage.

Steve was out there with no one but the woman. She was formidable, but the Winter Soldier remembered the men who put him in the chair, who put the wires to his mind, who taught him the error of his ways. He’d been away from them long enough that he could remember them all, their faces, their names, their roles.

Steve wasn’t prepared for that.

Steve needed back-up.

He retreated to the corner of the room and sat, considering his options. He knew his prison well enough now, and he knew his guards were wary and didn’t trust him. They were good soldiers, but they were also worried. Emotions were a useful tool.

There were five of them that he had seen, and Stark. Six. A small number.

They were not to be harmed, not until they were categorised, but they could be disarmed and secured. They were not defending the person who needed them. They wouldn’t be missed if they were sent back to the dugout. It was his turn to step up to the mark.

He waited until they brought the evening batch of food.

The two on duty this time were the ones he thought of as Dumdum and Lastman.

He’d spent the whole day seated opposite the door, but when he heard their footfalls, he moved behind the door. He could hear them talking, heard the hesitation in the rise and fall of their voices. Warned. They were warned. God damn it all.

The door swung inwards and neither of them entered.

The Winter Soldier crouched down slowly, picking up the half-empty bowl from his last meal. He had no other weapon, but he had had enough food fights with Steve to know how to use them.

Dumdum got a face full of sauce, and yelled, his hands flying to his eyes. Bucky’s hand was already moving, catching the barrel of Lastman’s gun and twisting it up. An elbow to Lastman’s gut folded him up and a punch to Dumdum’s groin dropped the bigger man to his knees. It took less than five seconds to disarm one, disable both, and shove them into his cell, locking the door. 

He turned the gun over in his hands, shaking his head. Tranquilisers again. They didn’t want to do any permanent damage to him any more than Stark wanted to starve him.

The halls were brightly-lit, and there were more doors, but these ones had been left unlocked.

Bucky shook his head. They’d gone and got sloppy in their old age.

He prowled onwards, pushing open the first of the doors. He ducked behind the metal when he heard the click of a gun cocking. Jimbo. Smartest of the group. Always kept his eyes open. Knew when to stay back.

Bucky looked down at the gun in his hand, then glanced at the ceiling. The lights were electric, a bulb covered by glass. One bulb per corridor. No light aside from that. At least one more corridor beyond another door.

The Winter Soldier smiled grimly. He knew how to fight in cold and in heat, in water and on ground, in light…

He raised his gun and leaned around the door, taking out the bulb in a single shot.

And in darkness.

Jimbo put up a good fight, but the Winter Soldier could fight blind. He winded the man, taking him down with a blow to the head, enough to stun, not enough to maim, and pinioned him with his own belt. The door ahead of him opened, light cutting through.

Monty and Gabe, both armed.

Bucky dropped the gun, spreading his hands by his sides.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Monty said, approaching cautiously.

Bucky raised his eyes to the man. “Where you should be,” he growled and launched himself in a feint to Monty’s left. The man - as any good soldier would - followed the movement with eyes and gun. Bucky recoiled back and sucker-punched him from the right, the blow up and under his ribs. Monty’s breath burst from his lungs in a croak and Bucky twisted his fist, jerking the man in front of him, a shield, just in time, as Jones fired.

The tranquiliser dart hit Monty between the shoulders and he blinked in surprise, his face close to Bucky’s. “Oh, bloody brilliant…”

Bucky delicately plucked his gun from his hand, and aimed it under Monty’s arm, but Jones was wiser than that. He’d backed up, and was shielded by the door.

“You’d do better to stand down,” he called in Russian.

Bucky snorted, hoisting Monty onto his shoulder to keep his torso covered. “Speak American, you slacker,” he snarled back. 

He shoved Monty’s gun into the pocket of his jacket - god, he was still wearing the suit. He looked like a fucking punk - and ran his hand along Monty’s belt. The guy always did like his toys, and some habits died hard.

Bucky smiled grimly as he felt the familiar surface of a smoke pellet. Small, not exactly great, but as a distraction, better than nothing.

Five minutes later, Jones was tucked up and sleeping beside Monty.

Ten minutes later, Bucky was looking at a table covered in maps and blueprints and data and it was like being back on the front all over again. One thing was missing and he scanned the documents, tracing lines and maps for a destination. 

He didn’t even hear the footsteps until the muzzle of a gun pressed to the back of his head. A real gun this time. Not a flimsy tranquilizer. 

His hands were spread on the table, and he drew a breath between his teeth. Dying was not an option, not when there was a job to do.

“Don’t move,” Stark said, his voice shaking like a girl’s on a first date. 

Bucky’s fingers slowly curled towards his palm. “Where the hell is Steve?” he rasped.


	47. Trapped

On one hand, they'd found the laboratory where Karpov had been based.

On the other hand, the security was a lot tighter than they'd anticipated. 

With new aliases - Steve didn't want to know how Peggy'd got them - they were able to move more freely, and somehow, with the knowledge she had from years around Stark, the SSR, and SHIELD, Peggy managed to get them into the facility. 

With Karpov gone, it turned out there were a lot of interested parties trying to fill his shoes, and the people in charge of the lab were keen to get anyone who would keep them functioning. With the right words, and the right tone, she got them through the door. Steve wasn't surprised. She gave off an air of authority, and when she spoke, people jumped, no matter language she was speaking.

The place was like something out of a nightmare. Or a memory.

Everything about it reminded him of Schmidt's factories in the Alps from the reflections of pale, clinical light on metal, and bare stone walls. Machines and technology of all kind lined walls and desks, and he had to walk in there like it wasn't making his skin crawl.

They were accompanied as they made their way through the building, as the leading operator gushed about the capabilities of the facility. Scientists and technicians avoided their eyes, keeping their heads down and getting on with their work. 

It was the uniform, Steve knew. Peggy had managed to acquire - beg/borrow/steal/kill for - a set of military uniforms and no one wanted to draw the attention of people of those ranks.

Peggy spoke briskly to their guide, keeping all his attention on her, and Steve was thankful for that. It meant he could look around, search for the places where data and files might be stored, and assess the accessibility.

It also meant he saw the upright glass cylinder where a man was floating in some kind of translucent liquid. He was lean, muscled, scarred, and naked except for the mask hooked up to the oxygen line. He almost looked peaceful, but Steve could see the burns on his wrists like the burns on Bucky's, and the marks at his temples. He could see the tight lines in the man's face that spoke of pain. 

He approached the glass, looking in at the man. His hands were tightening around each other behind his back. Did they do something like this to Bucky, he wondered. Cut him up, burn him, turn him into something he wasn't, then bottle him up and stick him on a shelf until they wanted to use him?

Behind him, Peggy was firing off questions, but Steve held up his hand.

He knew little Russian, but he said the word they had agreed on if it got too much.

"Enough."

The scientists looked both relieved and terrified as he turned and walked away.

When they left the building, Steve kept his expression carefully blank. The guide, flustered, stammered at him. Peggy moved her head in a minute nod. Steve looked at the man and said only the phrases Peggy had taught him by rote, thanking him for his time and suggesting they might be in contact shortly. It was enough to make the man think they were still interested, but not quite enough to promise him anything.

He was silent all the way back to the hotel, until Peggy did the usual sweep for new bugs.

"What did he tell you?" he finally said, when the scanner was set down.

"He was playing his cards close to his chest," Peggy admitted. "He wants more assurance of support before he'll give more away."

"He let us see a hell of a lot for someone keeping secrets," Steve said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"A taster," Peggy murmured, slipping out of her shoes. "But he did say one thing about that... tank." He looked up at her. "He said it was a recently developed technology, but had been very effective so far as part of a programme called the Winter Soldier. He acted as if we should know what that was."

"Bucky," Steve said quietly. "Their supersoldier programme. They're trying to make more."

She nodded, coming over to sit beside him. "I thought so too." Her hand covered his in his lap. "The military know about the programme. They're probably funding it. That's why he was letting anyone with a rank in: they need support from someone high up to keep it going."

Steve let his fingers wind around hers. "How long do we have left?" 

Their funds were running dangerously low already.

"If we want to find the data and the people who can tell us what needs to be done, it has to be in the next two days."

He looked at her hand. Her nails were bare pink ovals. "Tonight," he said. "We hit it tonight. If we can't find what we need or if it's not there, we take it down."

"Did you see find a reasonable entrance and exit strategy? The security was higher than expected."

He ran the ball of his thumb around her knuckle. "If we go in," he warned, "we might not be able to get back out."

He heard the way her breath caught, and she slowly inhaled, then exhaled. "Yes. I rather thought that might be the case." She leaned sideways, her upper arm resting against his, her head settling on his shoulder. "All things considered, if they're trying to make more men into weapons like Barnes, I would sooner see the place destroyed than just walk away."

"You don't need to come, Peggy," he said. "I can do this."

She lifted her head and he could feel her eyes on his face. "It's much too late for that," she said. "This is my choice, Captain."

Those words. She had to use those words. He had left her behind once before, to do the right thing, with those words. Now, she was right. Now, she was the one to make the choice.

He looked at her and could see the resolve and fire in her eyes.

"Okay," he agreed. "This is what we're going to do..."

Breaking in wasn't the challenge.

The were eight guards scattered around the perimeter in pairs. Peggy took one look at them and confirmed they were military, before slipping away like a shadow to deal with the ones at the East gate. Steve took the West. Fifteen minutes later, they met at the rendezvous in the shadow of the building, behind the barbed wire.

Peggy's hair was dishevelled and there was blood on her sleeve.

"Not mine," she murmured. "Shall we?"

He couldn't help himself. He leaned down and kissed her, and when he drew back, they were both breathless.

"For luck," he said.

She grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling him back down and kissed him harder. "For later," she whispered against his lips.

The ferocity in her eyes took his breath away. "Yes, ma'am."

The lab wasn’t empty. There were lights on despite the late hour, which meant they had to be even more careful. Scientists and technicians were monitoring the man in the tank. People were coming and going. There were more guards inside.

Peggy sent up a grappling hook, catching the edge of the roof, and she led the way, climbing up to the windows they had chosen as point of entry. They were close to roof level, with a brick ledge running along beneath them. She perched there as Steve climbed, carefully cutting the glass out of the frame. Despite her best try, some of it fell passed him as he ascended, shattering almost silently on the ground far below.

Peggy slipped in through the window easily. It was a tighter squeeze for Steve, the frame catching on his shoulders. By the time he got through, she was already halfway along the beam that ran the length of the building. Gantries ran the length of the facility, along the roof, above the light grids. That was the only way they could move around without notice. 

She moved like a cat, her boots silent, every step measured. Swordplay, he’d learned, when he’d met her parents. Peggy could disarm a man barehanded, but given a sword, she could beat any man who faced her. It made her balance perfect.

He followed, slipping around the intersecting beams, pausing, holding his breath, as dust shifted beneath his feet, cascading down. No one noticed them, not even when they crossed over one of the dividing walls that separated storage from laboratory.

The area they were going to was darker. No one needed filing in the middle of the night.

Steve jumped down from the beam. It was a long drop. He landed and rolled, then looked up at Peggy. She didn’t even hesitate before leaping, trusting him to catch her before she hit the ground.

Her touch on his arm told him which way she was going, and they divided to find the relevant files. She’d written a list of codewords to look out for, and he’d memorised them. It was a relief not to have to skim over contents and know what was being done. Just the codewords were easier. 

His heart felt like it stopped in his chest when he found the file he was looking for. He flicked it open, and the image of Bucky was enough to make him want to burn the place to the ground. It was Bucky, but it was Bucky frozen in time, locked in a glass tank like the man in the hall, his face contorted in pain.

There were shouts and pounding feet beyond the walls of the storage area. People on the move.

Peggy materialised at his side like a shadow. 

“Looks like we’ve been found out,” she said. “They suspect someone’s broken in.”

“They’re not wrong.” He looked at her. “Are they sweeping?”

She nodded curtly. “Did you find anything?” He showed her the file. “That’ll have to be enough. We need to leave.”

If only it was that simple.

Someone must have seen the broken glass, because lights were pointed up at the ceiling, tracking along the beams. People were shouting and moving. Sooner or later, they would come looking in the storage area, and Steve knew neither he nor Peggy were the sit and wait type. If it was going to come down to a fight, it would be on their terms.

Steve felt Peggy’s hand brush his, and the pressure of a smoke grenade.

“If we can take a technician,” she murmured, “so much the better.”

He looked down at her. “Would you like to lead?”

Her eyes shone. “Captain, I thought you’d never ask.”

He was the one who threw the smoke grenade, but Agent Carter was the one who took point, pistol in her hands. The smoke billowed out and sirens started wailing. Steve ignored them, closing his eyes and depending on his ears. He could tell where Peggy was from the sound of her boots, and where her enemies - their enemies - were. He only had a gun, but he could aim and fire without sight.

Someone screamed in the smoke, a gargling choked-off sound. Boots pounded nearer and he spun around. His fist connected with solid flesh. A guard in uniform folded up and Steve snatched up his gun, opening his eyes and squinting in the smoke.

There were people moving, and he saw the flash of Peggy’s guns in the midst of it and heard someone screaming and pleading in Russian. A shot. A bullet hissed passed his head and he ducked, rolled, snatching up a gas cylinder. It wasn’t a shield, but it knocked people down just as well. He felt the metal buckle after the fifth blow and the third guard.

People shouted and boots clattered. It sounded like withdrawal. Tactical withdrawal.

The sudden silence was deafening.

The only sound was a whimpering sob.

“Here.” Peggy’s voice was a rasping whisper. The smoke was clearing, little by little. He could see her silhouette close to the shining glass of the tank, standing over a fallen body. The body was shuddering and whimpering at her feet. 

Steve approached, gradually becoming aware of an ache in his upper arm. He looked down. A ragged tear had ripped through his sleeve and skin. Gunshot? He wasn’t sure. He could barely even feel it.

“Where’d’they go?”

“Orders,” Peggy breathed, her foot still pressing down on the throat of the man at her feet. It was a technician, his hands over his face, and he was bleeding at the mouth and shoulder. “We have this fellow. He was responsible for the tank, but…” She nodded towards the closed doors. “I’m afraid we’re trapped.”

He looked at the doors, then back at her. “I’m sorry, Peggy.”

She smiled at him quizzically. “Why? Because we get to finish what they started? Don’t be, Captain.” She cocked her gun. “We expected this might happen.”

He stepped closer, sliding his fingers behind her head, letting himself remember the sensation of the dark, warm curls of her hair. “We did,” he said. “It’s not the ending I wanted for you, you know.”

She touched his chest. “Or I you,” she agreed. “There ought to have been fat grandchildren in the offing, but that’s not really us, is it?” She closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in and then out again. “We had best prepare for the fight of our life.”

He lowered his head to press his brow to hers. “Would you do me the honour of this dance, Agent Carter?”

She laughed softly. “Why, Captain, aren’t you charming?” She rose on her toes and kissed him, then they drew back from one another. She handed him two grenades, and he offered her a fresh round for her gun. “We can’t be identified, if we fail.”

He ran his thumb over the grenade. “Don’t worry,” he said, glancing back towards the gas canister, dented and leaking on the ground. “We won’t be.”

There was a creak at the doors.

Peggy turned, gun raised, and Steve lifted the gun he’d taken from the guard. 

“If we run out of bullets…”

“I know.”

Through the clearing smoke, he could see the doors open. There wasn’t a legion. There wasn’t even a small unit. There was only one man, clad in black leathers, striding forward. Steve felt like a hand had closed around his chest, squeezing.

Muted light caught on the metal of the man’s arm as he raised a gun and pointed it right at them.

“Bucky?”


	48. Out

Barnes was there. Barnes was armed. Barnes was pointing a gun at them.

Peggy had always had good instincts. Her finger tightened on the trigger. The sound of his shot overlaid the sound of hers, and for a split-second, it felt like the world was standing still. The man was a crackshot. If he fired, he hit his target.

The sound of impact didn’t come from beside her. It came from behind. She jerked her head around to see the man from the tank, wet, naked, armed, and falling, a bullet hole in the middle of his head.

“Jesus!” Barnes’s voice was tight and low. “Jesus fucking Christ!” Peggy turned back, shaken. Barnes was folded over, his left hand at his right shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers. He looked up at her. “You fucking shot me!”

Peggy’s heart was drumming against her ribs. “Sergeant Barnes?”

Steve had no such hesitations. He ran forward, catching Barnes around the waist. “Buck?”

Barnes looked at him, staring at him as if he was seeing him for the first time. “You stupid little punk,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “I leave you alone for five minutes…”

Steve’s face was radiant. “God, Bucky,” he whispered. “What the hell are you doing here?”

With Steve’s help, Barnes straightened up, wincing. “Rescuing your dumb asses,” he said unsteadily. “Jesus.” He took a gulping breath. “They think I’m back on duty. Obeying orders. We don’t got much time.”

Peggy moved closer, staring at him. It wasn’t the same man she’d spoken to in the cell, but it wasn’t the same man who had tried to flirt with her years before. “Do you have an exit strategy, sergeant?”

He braced his left hand on Steve’s shoulder. “They heard two gunshots. They’ll think I’m hunting.” He looked between them. “There’s at least fifty men out front, waiting. I say we set fire to the place and head out the back door.”

“There’s no back door,” Steve said.

Barnes grinned and there was blood on his teeth. “Yet, pal,” he said. “There’s no back door yet.”

He had a dozen grenades, he had plastic explosives, he had all manner of weapon that made Peggy wish she was more than ten paces away from him. When they turned him into a weapon, they didn’t do things by halves.

Barnes was the one giving the orders now. Where to lay the charges. How many. The space between them. The time they would have before their escape was noted. 

They were going out the back wall. Barnes ran his left hand across the surface, then tapped a point where he said it was thinnest. She didn’t ask him how he knew. He didn’t say. He just set a trigger, and put himself between both of them and the wall as it blew. It was the trigger for every explosive he’d set. 

Peggy’s ears were ringing, as she and Steve scrambled over the rubble, Barnes right behind them. He lobbed another two grenades into the roaring inferno and the windows along the top of the building blew out, flames licking up the walls. 

“This way,” he snarled. 

There was a fence ahead, but it tore like gauze under his metal hand. He knew the city better than either of them and led them, running, into a rabbit warren of streets and side alleys. He was staggering, and Steve ran forward, catching him under the arm to help him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Peggy darted to his other side, taking his left.

Barnes shot her a guarded look, then nodded, all of them racing into the dark.

The fire at the factory was drawing a lot of attention. Smoke and flames were billowing out, lighting the sky to the south.

It meant that fewer people were paying attention to them. No one saw them scramble into the back of an emptied truck. No one saw the flap fall into places, hiding them as the truck roared to life and rumbled back towards the main body of the city.

Barnes was pressed back against the side of the truck. His left hand was pressed to his shoulder again, and his head rocked back against the side. He was pale in the darkness, and Steve moved to kneel closer to him. “Let me…”

“Don’t touch me,” Barnes snarled in Russian, recoiling. He flinched again, then hissed in English. “Shit.”

Peggy’s hand was at her gun in a split-second, resting there. “Sergeant?”

“Yeah…yeah,” Barnes said, wincing, as he uncovered the wound. “Still me. Mostly.” He took a shaking breath. “Sorry. I just… conflicting orders. Kill. Protect. They’re…it’s kinda loud in my head when I can’t concentrate.”

“I get that,” Steve said, quiet, careful. “What about Peggy? Is she a target?”

Barnes jerked his head. “Not yet,” he whispered.

Steve looked at her. “Can you…?”

Peggy lowered her hand from her gun. “Well, I was the one who shot him,” she said, crawling across the rocking floor. She braced her knees on either side of his right thigh for stability. He was watching her from beneath his lashes. His lips were pale and trembling. “May I?”

The tip of his tongue brushed his lower lip, and he nodded tightly, lowering his hand.

It was a clean through-and-through, which was a mercy, but it was bleeding heavily. She pulled off her jacket and pullover, removing the blouse from beneath. Barnes closed his eyes, averting his face and she clicked her tongue.

“The battlefield is no place for modesty, Sergeant,” she said, pulling her pullover and jacket back on as fast as she could The chill was biting. 

He cracked open his eyes, looking up at her. “Call me an old-fashioned gentleman,” he said hoarsely.

She tore the blouse into strips, and knelt up to put pressure on both sides of the wound. “I find that hard to believe,” she said. “What are we waiting for, I believe were the words?”

He looked confused for a moment, then chuckled. He winced immediately after. “Oh. Yeah.”

The truck hit a pothole, throwing her off-balance. With her hands occupied and bloody, Steve’s hand at her shoulder, and Barnes’ metal hand at her waist stabilised her. She could feel the hard chill of metal and the softness of flesh. Neither of them let go.

She grimaced. “The sooner we’re on even ground, the better,” she said. “Do we have a plan?”

Barnes was watching her again. His head has rocked back against the side of the truck, his eyes half-open. “We need to get to the docks,” he said. His voice was getting fainter. “There are boats there. If we can get far enough out, we have a pick-up waiting.”

“When the truck stops, we get out.”

“We are hardly equipped to blend in presently,” Peggy said curtly. The bleeding was lessening, but the strips of cloth were stained and dark around her hands. “Especially when we don’t know where we’ll stop.”

“Shadows,” Barnes murmured. “Get to the shadows. They’re cover.”

He was right. Even if the shadows were scarce, there were always side streets and places to vanish.

When the truck came to a halt, Steve vaulted down, looking around. The streets were quiet, and he nodded. He and Peggy helped Barnes down, and they stumbled to the nearest alley. Peggy couldn’t help noticing that Barnes was barely leaning on her, even with his arm around her shoulder. His full weight was on Steve.

“West,” he breathed. “We go west, we hit the docks.”

“You say there’s a pick-up waiting,” Peggy said as they walked. “Who?”

Barnes stifled a laugh. “You think I just walked out of your cells and swam here?” he rasped. “You got a friend with balls of steel, Carter. He brought me.”


	49. Flight

The winds were icy and flurries of snow were gusting across the sea, beating up waves against the side of the boat. It was too cold to stay out on deck, but Howard couldn’t stay in the cockpit, just waiting.

He was technically in Russian waters, but that wasn’t scaring him as much as the thought of coming back empty-handed, leaving Rogers, Carter, and Barnes behind enemy lines, with no way for him to find them.

It would have been easier with any of the Howling Commandoes with him, but Barnes refused to work with them. He said they’d got sloppy, and if they couldn’t keep a prisoner in his cell, how the hell were they meant to get Rogers out of hostile territory. Given that the man had just managed to disarm and lock up every one of them without breaking a sweat, Howard could see his point.

Instead, he’d flown them to London, then on to Helsinki in his private plane. It was just the two of them and Barnes kept them under the radar once they were in European territory. He had been in Finland before, he said, with no further explanation. 

Howard, to be frank, was amazed he got them there in one piece. Every time Barnes prowled into the cockpit, the hair on the back of Howard’s neck rose on end, and every time he saw the gleaming metal arm, he felt sick to the pit of his stomach. 

Barnes hardly spoke to him. He spent most of the flight in the back of the plane, doing god only knew what. Something to do with weapons from the sound of metal on metal. Howard didn’t dare look away from the cockpit, not even for a second. He didn’t know if he’d turn around and see Barnes or the assassin who had murdered so many people.

Either Barnes had contacts or he was one hell of a thief, because they ended up with a small boat. It was some kind of fishing boat that looked like it would capsize at the first breath of wind. Thankfully, it was sturdy enough to deal with the choppy waters, and Barnes knew the area. Once more, Howard didn’t ask any questions.

Barnes got dropped at a non-descript point on the coast, and Howard withdrew to a spike of rock that was too big to be called an outcrop, but way too small to be called an island. He was under orders to wait there, and he had a feeling that whatever the hell Barnes had become wouldn’t be too happy if he disobeyed.

So he waited.

And waited.

The boat rocked in the rise and fall of the tides, and the winds rose and fell. Howard huddled in the cabin for warmth, but when that felt too claustrophobic, he ventured on deck to stare out to the east, hoping that there would be a boat on the horizon soon.

Sometimes, he even went down and toyed with the engine. Anything to keep from going stir-crazy. Nothing too major. Just enough to give it a boost if they needed to leave in a hurry.

Barnes hadn’t even thought of bringing food, so all Howard had with him were the handful of provisions he’d shoved into his pack before Barnes dragged him onto the boat. Three days of living on thick black bread and smoked meat with mouthfuls of vodka wasn’t any way he’d ever wanted to live.

In the dead of night on the fourth day, he was woken by a bell.

Howard scrambled up. The boat shouldn’t have been noticed. No one came near the rock he was hiding out on, and even if they did, it was too dark for anyone to pick the boat out. That only meant one thing.

He scrambled out of the cockpit onto the deck, the night air like knives in his chest. 

There was a light on the water, flickering and bobbing closer. Praying he wasn’t making a mistake, he lit up his own lantern, covering the glass in Morse code, longs and shorts and longs and saw a message in the light on the other end.

Carter.

His legs were shaking beneath him, and he raced back to untie the boat from the mooring. He headed for the engine, to get it running. Once they were on board, they had to get back to neutral territory as soon as possible. He heard the thump of booted feet landing on the deck.

Carter appeared in the doorway. “All accounted for, Stark,” she said, breathless. “Go. Fast. We have company.”

Howard didn’t hesitate, veering away from the rock that had been his harbour. He could hear another engine over the howl of the wind, something bigger and much faster. 

“How bad?” he asked tersely. 

“Bad enough,” Carter replied, leaning against the wall of the cabin and looking out.

Gunfire rattled in the air. Howard didn’t need to look around to know it was too close for comfort. He pushed the engine harder, the hull crashing down on the waves, almost knocking them off their feet.

Something exploded behind them, flames blooming. Howard cursed, ducking down over the wheel. “What the hell was that?”

“Our getaway boat,” Peggy snapped out. “Booby-trapped. Just go!”

He nodded, wheeling the boat in a tight arc towards the north west, back towards international waters. A fishing boat was definitely not the kind of thing he would have recommended for a chase by the Soviet military. His tinkering gave them an edge, at least, even if he heard the dull thump of bullets hitting wood more than once.

He hit the lights, sending them into pitch darkness, thankful it was a moonless night.

Outside, there were explosions on all sides.

“What the hell…”

“Grenades,” Carter said. 

He didn’t know how they got away. He didn’t look back. All he knew was that they were moving forward in the direction of land, and there were lights in the distance and nothing behind them anymore. 

His hand was shaking as he flicked the lights back on, illuminating the cabin.

“We’re clear?” Steve Rogers had never been more welcome as he was in that moment, leaning heavily in the doorway.

“Coast of Finland up ahead,” Howard replied. He hesitated, then added, “Good to see you alive, Rogers.”

“Good to be alive,” Rogers said. He braced his hand against the doorframe. “Is there a medical kit on this tub?”

“Not that I could find,” Howard said. “You’re okay?”

“I’m good,” Steve assured him. “Bucky’s needing some patching up.” 

“I may have slightly shot him,” Carter added.

“Slightly,” Steve agreed. He looked tired and haggard and there was blood on his clothing. “Thank you. For bringing him, I mean. He saved our lives.”

Howard half-laughed. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “It was all his dumb idea.”

“Still,” Steve said, “we’re grateful.”

Howard nodded, trying to contain a smile of relief. “We’ll be in port soon. We should be able to get supplies there, before we head out.”

Steve touched his fingers to his brow in a salute, before disappearing back out onto the deck.

Howard looked at Carter. “You shot him?”

“A flesh wound,” she demurred. “Disarming only.” She met his eyes and smiled briefly, without humour. “I don’t think Steve would have forgiven me if I’d killed the man.”

“No,” Howard agreed. “But he’s still Barnes, right? I mean, he’s… not the same as he was, but he’s Barnes again.”

“For now,” Peggy said with a nod. “It’s a start.”


	50. Truths

Bucky couldn't remember how they got from the boat to their newest position. Maybe another truck? He wasn't sure. He recognised the smell, but couldn't place it: metal, fuel, leather.

He forced his eyes open, blinking, unfocussed.

They were moving. There was someone leaning over him, pushing him back in a sitting position in a chair. No! No chairs. No restraints. No more. He lashed out with his left hand, throwing his assailant off, leaving the way out clear. He was on his feet, swaying, as the world swam around him.

"Sergeant Barnes!" Carter's voice. Carter? Good. "Stand down."

Bucky tried to focus on her. "Carter?"

She was standing over Steve, who was half-sitting on the floor, pushing himself up on his arms. Barnes' focus stayed on her, though. She had her gun out, pointed at him. Not at his arm this time. Dead centre. A warning. 

"You're safe, sergeant," she said, her voice steady. "Sit down."

He sank down onto the seat behind him. Leather. Luxurious. Stark's plane. He wrapped his left hand around the arm of the seat, holding on tightly to it. Better than lashing out again. 

"You okay, Steve?" he asked, not taking his eyes off Carter, not until she lowered the gun.

"It's not like I haven't been pushed over before," Steve replied with a laugh that Bucky could tell was a little forced. "You?"

Carter lowered the gun, and Bucky's eyes flicked to Steve's face. Steve didn't look angry or scared or hurt. Worried, yeah, but that was all. 

"Don't push me like that," he said. He felt like his tongue was too big for his mouth. His head was aching. He could remember the conditioning chamber. He'd seen it as he laid explosives in the lab. He couldn't remember exactly what it did, but he could remember the pain. "It..." He shook his head, grimacing. "You don't want to do that."

Steve picked himself up. "I'll remember," he said. He bent to pick up a box from the floor. "I was going to patch your shoulder."

"That can wait," Stark called through from the cockpit. "Seats for take-off, if you don't mind."

Bucky watched as Carter moved closer to Steve, drawing the box from his hands. Their fingers overlapped for a moment. 

“I’ll do that, Steve,” she said. “You didn’t even get through basic medical training.”

Steve didn’t argue. He wouldn’t, not with a dame anyway. At least he hadn’t. Not really. Not that Bucky could remember. 

There were two girls in a lot of the memories, always two, like they all stepped out together, but he couldn’t remember seeing Steve alone with a girl, not once. And now, he was with Carter and they both had faint pale lines on their bare ring fingers that spoke volumes.

Bucky watched her guardedly as she sat down opposite him for take-off. 

He couldn’t remember if Steve had mentioned anything about a wedding. All the memories from the cell were tangled up: words Steve had said, memories of things they had done, files he had read, dossiers. Maybe it had been mentioned. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe he was right about it. Maybe he was wrong.

He kept eyes on Carter.

Maybe he knew more than he was meant to.

She only moved towards him when they were in the air. She motioned for him to slide down from the seat onto the floor. It brought him down to her level, where she quickly and methodically set to removing his leather overcoat and heavy tunic.

His tunic was soaked with blood, despite the bindings she had wound around his shoulder, and she cursed between clenched teeth as she peeled away the strips of cloth.

“Some water, Steve, if you could,” she said, without taking her eyes from the wound. “There may be some dish or bowl in one of the lockers. Howard brought several bottles with us.”

She had experience of tending bloody wounds. Bucky could tell that much from the lightness of her touch. In another lifetime, he might have teased her. A beautiful dame and a half-naked man was perfect material to make her blush. 

But she was covered in his blood, and they were not friends. He knew that she probably could arm herself before he could harm her in any way. His right arm was useless. Her shot had torn through muscle and flesh, and left his limb lamed by his side. 

She was a soldier. She had protected Steve Rogers when no one else had.

For that, he was grateful, but only that.

He watched her face as she cleaned his wound. She didn’t look at him once, her dark eyes on the ragged hole. She rinsed it out with alcohol, then stitched without asking once if he was in pain. If she had asked, he didn’t know what he would have said. Yes, there was pain, but there was always pain.

Steve was quiet. He seemed to know that it was not a time for words. He was watching. Bucky could feel those calm blue eyes on him. There were questions. There would be many of them, but now, there were more important things. The bloodied woman in front of him. The secret they were keeping.

When Carter finally lifted her eyes to him, as she tied the bandage in place, she held his gaze.

“Are you quite all right, sergeant?” she asked.

“Quite all right,” he echoed, staring back at her.

Carter picked up the wet cloth from the bowl of bloody water, wringing it out. “Steve, perhaps you could see if Howard needs anything. Navigational assistance or something of the kind.” 

He must have moved away. Bucky didn’t turn to check.

“You’re staring, sergeant,” Carter said quietly, wiping the blood from his bare arm. “If it’s because I shot you…”

“It’s not.”

“Then what?”

She was kneeling between his splayed knees. It took hardly any movement at all to brush the knuckles of his metal hand against her belly. She recoiled back, but the expression on her face was confused. “Mind your hands, sergeant,” she said.

Bucky’s metal fingers curled in. A secret then. Kept from Steve. Something he would want to know about. He moved his hand suddenly, splaying his palm low against her belly, his fingers curling into the fabric of her clothing. “You didn’t tell him,” he snarled. “You knew what you were going into and you didn’t tell him?”

Carter’s thumb dug into his shoulder and the pain made him jerk back, but he kept his hand right where it was. He could feel her heart racing, but beneath it, the flicker of something smaller, newer, younger.

“Remove your hand,” she hissed, her gun up beneath his chin. “Now.”

He shook his head, baring his teeth. “You might not care about this, but he will. It’s his fucking child too.”

Carter’s whole body was tense as a wire. He felt her heartbeat stutter.

“What?” she whispered.

Bucky stared at her, his hand still pressed low on her belly. The gun slipped from her hand, fell to the floor, and her hand covered his. There was shock on her face. He recognised that expression. Shock and joy.

“You can feel… is… how?”

“The heartbeat,” he said, dazed. “You didn’t know?”

She shook her head, her eyes bright. “Steve,” she said in a whisper. “Steve. We have to tell Steve.”

He nodded. He should move his hand from her, he knew, but she was holding it there, holding it tight. He had told her a secret she didn’t know, and she had welcomed it. “Steve!” he yelled hoarsely. “Get your ass back here.”

Steve was smiling like a jackass. “What are you yelling about, you jerk?” he said, and Bucky could remember those words. 

Bucky looked at Peggy. “You wanna tell him?”

She was crying. Christ, there were tears on her face, and she was crying, but she was smiling too. She hadn’t known. He was ready to hate her for being so goddamned stupid, walking into a war zone with something so precious, but she never knew, and she was happy.

“Peggy?” Steve’s voice registered concern.

“You tell him, sergeant,” she said, her voice trembling. “You found out.”

“It’s Bucky, Carter,” he said, and for the first time, the name felt right again. He looked up at Steve, and the poor schmuck looked like he was about to have a goddamned conniption. “Congratulations, Captain America. You’re going to be a pop.”

Steve stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Huh?”

Peggy looked up at him too. “A baby, Steve,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time. “If serg… if Bucky is right, we’re going to have a baby.”

Steve was across the floor, on his knees beside them, and had both of them wrapped up in his stupid big arms in less than five seconds flat.


	51. Always

Steve was giddy.

He almost felt like he was drunk, like in the old days, when Bucky snuck him a beer from his father’s stash. He couldn’t keep his hand off Peggy’s stomach, and she was leaning into him and smiling too.

They’d been like that for the whole flight, except for the five minutes when he’d run through to the cockpit and almost kissed Howard Stark right on the mouth.

A baby. They were going to have a baby.

Bucky mumbled something about feeling the heartbeat and figuring they knew, or at least Peggy knew already. Steve had almost smacked him upside the head. God knew the last thing they’d been thinking about for the last few months was having kids.

They were holed up in a hotel in New York together, all three of them. Stark had found them somewhere high class and discreet, with a suite big enough for a group of ten. 

Steve figured that when they got to New York, they’d all be able to rest, but he couldn’t even think about sleeping. 

Bucky just smiled quietly at them both and retreated into one of the bedrooms, closing the door, giving them some privacy. Bucky, who’d been mad at Peggy for hiding something she didn’t know she was hiding. Bucky, who had protected Steve his whole life. Bucky, already protecting a kid they didn’t even know existed.

It was going to be rough for him, both of them knew that, but he wanted to protect their kid, and that was pure Bucky right there. Whatever the Russians had done to him, they hadn’t destroyed who he really was.

Steve slid down off the couch to kneel in front of Peggy, leaning close to rest his ear on her belly.

Her fingers curled through his hair. “Do you hear anything?”

“Only that you’re hungry,” he said, lifting his head to look at her. 

She cupped his cheek. “I suppose this puts something of a damper on our plans to hunt down Hydra,” she said.

“Why?” he asked, propping his arms on either side of her thighs. “You can work from our bases. You don’t need to go out in the field. We have the advantage now. We have the Commandoes back. We’ve taken care of a major threat from the Soviets. And we have Bucky.”

She glanced towards the door of the room where Bucky had closed himself away. “But do we want to force him back into this fight?” she asked quietly. “Steve, he may still be himself, but there are elements that are out of his control. He needs to have stability first, above all else.”

He gazed at her fondly. “You’re watching his back now?”

“Before, he was an enemy with your friend’s face,” she said. 

He rose up on his knees and kissed her gently. “I won’t throw him back into a fight,” he said, “but if he wants to take his pound of flesh, I’m not going to stop him. He has the right.” He nudged the tip of his nose against hers. “And if he doesn’t want to fight, I know exactly who he’ll want to protect.”

She drew back and looked down, then back up at him. “I’m going to have a metal-armed bodyguard for the next goodness knows how many months, aren’t I?”

“If he wants to protect you and that little person in there, if it helps him,” Steve began. “Peggy, I know you don’t like being looked after or treated like you’re fragile or…”

Her fingertips pressed to his lips. “On this occasion, Captain,” she said softly, “I think I will be happy to make an exception.” She lowered her hand to take his. “We have a lot of enemies, after all. Having a friend to keep us all safe wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

He must have looked relieved. “I know he’s not exactly stable.”

“But this could be the focus he needs,” she murmured. “Yes. I remember.” Her smile was brief. “I never knew my father before the war. Mother said he was quite different. I only remember we had to be… accommodating for him. I don’t imagine it will be any easier for Sergeant Barnes.” She squeezed his hand. “Whatever helps him, and us.”

“Thank you,” he said softly.

For a moment, they just sat there, her fingers brushing along his knuckles. 

"You should talk to him," Peggy finally murmured, "and I could do with a bath."

Steve nodded, scrambling up and offering her his hands. She looked at him in amusement.

"I don't need chivalry, Captain," she said, her eyes warm. She still slipped her hands into his and let him draw her up. "I managed to scale a wall and cross a building on the roof girders less than three days ago. I think I can manage to get up."

"Let me spoil you," he said.

Her lips turned up at one side. "I suppose it would be nice," she said. "Just for a little while." She drew her hands from his. "Now, off with you."

He watched her as she crossed the floor to the bathroom, then headed for the room where Bucky had taken refuge. He rapped his knuckles lightly on the door. "Buck? Can I come in?"

The door opened a moment later. Bucky looked out through the gap in the door, then retreated back into the room, leaving the door open. Steve pushed it wider, slipping into the room. The overhead lights were off, but a table lamp was on the floor by the wall, illuminating the man sitting beside it. 

Bucky had dragged the sheets from the bed and laid them out in the shelter of the side of the couch. The blinds were drawn and the curtains closed. He was making the room secure, and giving himself a strategic hiding place in case of attack.

It hurt to see him do that, but Steve knew what it was like. He could remember watching shadows, feeling his heartbeat pick up at a movement out of the corner of his eye. How much worse was it for a man who was trained to expect that everyone was an enemy and a target?

Bucky was sitting against the wall, outlined against the table lamp. His feet were flat on the floor, his knees upraised, and his hands were curled over his knees. Steve hesitated, then sat down at the end of the bed, his back against the edge of the mattress.

“You okay?”

Bucky didn’t look at him. “Strange being home,” he said. “Family still out there. Like a real person.”

“You are a real person, Bucky. Always have been.” Steve hesitated, then asked quietly, “Do you want to see them?”

A convulsive shudder ran through Bucky’s body. “Not… no. Not right now. Not… _good_ now.”

The bed creaked as Steve leaned forward in concern and Bucky’s eyes snapped open, fixing on him, focussed, intent. Steve sat back, hands raised passively. "Okay, Buck. It’s okay.” He watched his friend’s features tighten. “You okay with me being here?"

Bucky nodded, lowering his eyes to his hands. "I don't want to hurt you right now," he said, his voice brittle.

"But the order's still in there, isn't it?" Steve said. He felt sick to his stomach when Bucky nodded jerkily. Steve shook his head. "I don't know how you're doing this, Buck."

Blue eyes lifted to his face. There were shadowed hollows under Bucky's eyes. He looked exhausted. "Because I got your back," he whispered. His lips were dry and cracked. "Til the end of the line, pal."

Steve stared at him, then shifted onto his knees, crawling closer to the man who had been his best friend for his whole life. Bucky pressed back against the wall, breathing hard.

"I might hurt you," he whispered. "Carter. She's not here to stop me."

"You didn't hurt me in the cell," Steve said gently. "You didn't hurt me in the factory. You didn't hurt me in the plane. I trust you, Buck." He leaned closer and Bucky's metal hand moved, pressing against his chest, not pushing back, but not pulling forward either. "I trust you."

Bucky was staring at him, his eyes gleaming in the faint light. "You always were a stupid punk," he whispered. "Always throwing yourself into trouble. How the hell did you survive this long?"

Steve knocked his brow to Bucky's. "Because I had a stupid jerk to watch my back," he said.

Bucky's fingers curled into his shirt with surprising gentleness, but his other arm, still weak from Peggy's shot was flung clumsily around his shoulder. "Dumbass," Bucky whispered, pulling him into a tight hug, burying his face in Steve's shoulder.

"Look whose talking," Steve replied, his cheek pressing to Bucky's tangled hair. 

He could feel hot dampness through his shirt and threaded his fingers through Bucky's hair. Bucky was shuddering, sobbing, but he wasn't making a sound. They'd silenced him, pretending he couldn't feel, but Steve wasn't going to ignore it like they did. 

"Easy, Buck, easy," he murmured, rubbing gently at the back of Bucky's neck, kneading across his shoulders, shielding him from everything with his own body. "I'm here. We're going to be okay. You and me. We'll be okay."

He didn't know how long Bucky wept for. He didn't care. He just held him until his breathing shuddered and evened out. From one breath to the next, he went from gasping to complete stillness.

Steve's palm was warm against the nape of Bucky's neck. “You still alive in there?”

Bucky nodded against his shoulder. His fingers were still curled into Steve’s shirt. “You happy?” he asked hoarsely.

“You still ask stupid questions,” Steve murmured, rubbing his cheek against Bucky’s hair.

Bucky laughed unsteadily. “I got another,” he whispered.

“Yeah?”

“You’re calling it James, right?”

“It? My son’s an it?”

Bucky’s shoulders shook. “Could be a girl,” he whispered. “How about it? Little James Rogers in her skirt and pigtails? It’s got a ring to it.”

Steve drew back and waited until Bucky looked up at him. “It was always going to be James,” he said.

Bucky lifted his metal hand, cuffing Steve’s cheek softly. The metal wasn’t cool, warmed by Steve’s own body. “You’re a sentimental son of a bitch, Steve Rogers.”

“Yes,” Steve said, squeezing Bucky’s shoulders. “Yes, I am.”


	52. Together

The doctor confirmed what Barnes had told them in a matter of days.

Peggy was dazed and thrilled. She telephoned her mother at once, forgetting completely about time zones and all that nonsense. Both mother and father extended congratulations, and a threat of disownment if she didn’t visit again in due course and bring her child with her.

It was a blessed reprieve, in the midst of all the chaos.

She and Steve took a few days to gather themselves, before returning to the SHIELD offices with Barnes in tow. For all that he gave them space, she knew that he was guarding their perimeter, and watching over them in case of threats.

It surprised her how comforting that was, even with the very recent memory of seeing the man beat Steve seven shades of black and blue. 

Barnes was a different man, though.

It was visible in his body-language, his stance, his expression. The weapon he had been was contained now. Still there, and fully capable, if Barnes needed to defend someone, but there could be no denying he was Steve’s friend once more.

The Howling Commandoes were less easily swayed, watching him with suspicion when he entered the briefing room with Peggy and Steve. He was back in civilian clothing, and didn’t look like the man they’d had locked in their cells anymore.

“Guys,” he said.

Dernier had a hand on his gun. Dugan was even less subtle with both guns on the table, his hands on either side of them. She saw Montgomery rub the back of his neck and the way Morita’s eyes narrowed. Jones was the one to stand up.

“You back to kick our asses again?” he said.

Peggy looked at Barnes, frowning. “What?”

“Ah.” Stark said gingerly. “Yeah. About how he got out. It wasn’t my decision.”

Steve groaned. “Buck, what did you do?”

Barnes shrugged, stepping forward and pulling a chair out for Peggy. “They weren’t watching your back,” he said. “Someone had to.” Peggy looked sidelong at him as she approached the chair. She could see the gleam in his eyes that was becoming familiar. “Anyway, they’d got sloppy. What was I meant to do? Just sit and wait there for you to get yourself killed?”

There was a moment of silence.

Peggy sat down, smothering a smile. She straightened her skirt, then looked up around the table at the Commandoes, who were all staring at Barnes.

“I’ll be goddamned…” Dugan said. “Barnes?”

Peggy could feel the weight of Barnes leaning on the back of her chair. “Yeah. Mostly.”

“We figured something was going on when you didn’t kill anyone,” Jones admitted. “Man, you coulda just asked us to let you out.”

“Would it have worked?”

“Probably not,” Montgomery said wryly. “Cunning Soviet assassins and what have you.” He was eyeing Barnes guardedly. “You aren’t going to… you know…” He dragged his finger across his neck, wincing.

“Not if you don’t keep doing that,” Barnes said abruptly. “Steve.”

Steve stepped alongside Barnes and Peggy’s chair. She could see he had his hand on Barnes’ shoulder, and each of the Commandoes turned their attention to him respectfully.

“Bucky’s back with us now,” he said. “Whatever they made him do, that was out of his control. You got a problem with that, then you take it up with me, okay?” There were nods around the table. “We’ve got a lot to do, and there’s been a complication. Peggy will be doing the intel work from here. Bucky will be watching her back.”

“And you, Captain?” Morita asked. 

“The Captain,” Peggy said, folding her hands on the table, “will be dealing with Hydra. We won’t force your hands, gentlemen, but if you wish to join him, do so. If not, the door is behind me, and you are free to walk out without any questions or doubts.” She looked along the line of faces. “We have dealt a blow to the Russian science division, but we have other enemies and we need all the allies we can get.”

The Commandoes glanced at each other, then Dugan leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest. “I want a chance to kick Barnes’ ass again,” he said. “If I haveta stay and deal with Hydra first, I’ll do it.”

“What do you mean ‘again’, Dugan?” Barnes said. “That would mean there was a first time.”

“Oh, I have to stick around for this,” Jones said, sitting down too. “I’m in, Cap.”

“And I,” Dernier agreed, grinning. “You are in trouble now, Dugan.”

The rest was only semantics, the men arguing about their roles and posts. Barnes said little, but when she leaned back in the chair and her shoulder brushed his hand, he uncurled his fingers and gave her shoulder a cautious squeeze.

Peggy tilted her head to look up at him.

Barnes’s face was expressionless, but she could see the way his chest was rising and falling, and the sporadic movement of his throat as he swallowed. She lifted her hand and lightly brushed her fingers across his.

“Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes,” she murmured. 

He looked down at her, his lips trembling as he tried to smile. He nodded unsteadily, then looked back up again.

When Steve sat down at the table, Barnes remained where he was, standing behind her. It felt oddly comforting, knowing he was there. If the Commandoes noticed it, and wondered, they didn’t say anything. 

It wasn’t until they were handing out briefs that Jones raised a hand. “Got a question.”

“This isn’t the schoolhouse, Gabe,” Morita snorted.

Jones rolled his eyes. “Cap, you said there was a complication?”

Peggy looked sidelong at Steve. “If you want to tell them…” she said, waving a hand.

If she hadn’t loved him before, the way his face lit up might have changed her mind. Of course he wanted to tell everyone. She had never seen him happier than the moment he realised he was going to be a father.

The Commandoes listened, then were quiet for all of a second, before everyone was yelling at once, whooping and applauding. Steve was dragged up from his chair into back-slapping embraces from the rest of the men and kisses on both cheeks from Dernier. 

In the uproar, Barnes leaned down and said quietly, “He never thought he’d have this chance.”

Peggy started at his breath so close to her ear. “Steve?” she murmured, tilting her head to look up at Barnes.

“You saw him before, Carter,” he whispered. “We remember him. He didn’t think he’d get past thirty, let alone be married and having a kid.” His hands were on her shoulders, and he squeezed so gently she could barely feel it. “You made him happy, Carter.”

She covered his metal hand lightly with hers. “I don’t think he would be quite so happy if you weren’t here, Sergeant.”

His fingers tightened just a little. “I told you, Carter. It’s Bucky. Call me Bucky. It’s… stronger. More me. Less… soldier. Less that.”

She met his eyes. “If you call me Peggy.”

He gazed at her and nodded. “Deal,” he said. “Peggy.”

They shared a secret smile and looked back at Steve, who was beaming.

“He’s going to be a wonderful father,” she said.

Bucky breathed in and out softly behind her. “Yes, he is,” he agreed.


	53. Epilogue - Twelve years later

The window creaked as it was pushed up.

Sarah James Rogers didn’t turn. She hugged her knees tighter to her chest, and stared out at the snow. It was cold, but she never really felt the cold anyway. She just didn’t want to go back inside and listen to her dad try and explain.

“Scoot over, Jamie.”

She hesitated, then looked up. “Uncle Buck?”

The man who was her name-sake and a second father to her smiled briefly at her. “Good call,” he said. He nudged her gently with his foot. “Give me some room, kiddo.”

She shifted over and he folded down to sit beside her on the fire escape. He put an arm around her shoulder, tucking her snugly against his right side, and she could feel how warm he was through his jacket.

“You’re going to tell me not to be mad at him, aren’t you?” she said quietly.

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” he replied, “but I’m going to give you some context. Your old man was a soldier. You can hang up your uniform, but that doesn’t mean you ever stop being a soldier. It sticks with you, and if your country needs you…”

“But it’s stupid,” she whispered. “He already was in too many wars. Why does he have to go to this one?”

“Because,” uncle Buck said with a sigh, “your dad is a stubborn jackass who can’t help doing the right thing.” 

Jamie curled into him and reached over to touch his metal hand. She’d heard the stories, but she knew there were parts no one wanted to tell her, not until she was ‘old enough’, whenever that would be. “What if he doesn’t come back?”

Uncle Buck’s cheek rested against her hair. “He will. He always does. He might be a stubborn jackass, but he’s a stubborn jackass with back-up.”

She lifted her head to look up at him. “You’re going too?” she said accusingly.

Uncle Buck’s blue eyes met hers. “Where he goes, I follow,” he said. “You know that.” He lifted his hand to cradle the back of her head. “You, your dad, your mom. You’re my mission. You keep me going.” His voice was low and more serious than usual. “I’m not going to let any of you get hurt.”

She slipped her fingers between his metal ones, clasping his hand like a lifeline. “You have to come back too, uncle Buck,” she said fiercely. “Promise.”

He squeezed her hands, smiling quietly. “For my girl? You bet.” He leaned closer and kissed her on the forehead. “You watch out for your mom, okay? And Grandma Barnes. That’s your mission, kiddo.”

She snorted. “Some mission. Mom- and grandma-sitting.”

Uncle Buck chuckled. “You might want to ask your mom about those books she’s working on,” he said. “You’re pretty good at words, right? I think it’s about time your mom taught you how to read ciphers.”

Jamie stared at him. “What?”

He leaned down close. “You didn’t think Captain America would settle for any old soldier, did you?” he said, eyes dancing. “Spend some time with your mom. I think you might have the harder mission than I do.”

Jamie grinned at him. “Yes, sir, Sergeant Bucky, sir.”

He hugged her close against his side. “That’s my girl.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END :D


End file.
